


Swanjolras

by thechandrian



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Self-Esteem Issues, Swans, Ugly!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechandrian/pseuds/thechandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, a revolutionary cursed to become a swan during the day, and Grantaire, the apathetic Prince of France, meet one day at a lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No harm intended, no profit made. I do not own Les Miserables. This is loosely based on _Swan Lake_ , which I don't own either.

It has often been theorized that our universe, and what little we know of it, is actually just one universe among millions, the outcome of events and choices made throughout time. For example, in the universe we know now, the country of France is a decently sized Republic and a part of the European Union. Its capital is Paris, which famously features the Eiffel Tower. It has had a series of revolutions and rebellions, at least one famously preserved in a novel that may or may not have been adapted into a musical. Overall, it is generally seen as a nice place to live or visit.

However, in an alternate universe, one very similar to our own and yet so very different, the country of France is remarkably changed. In fact, it is quite possibly as far away from the France with which you might be familiar. To begin with, France is a monarchy currently ruled by the aging King Jean Valjean. Although monarchies, revolutions, and governments have come and gone, the country, especially the capital city of Paris, is filled with poverty, unemployment, and government corruption. This tension and conflict is caused primarily because the King of France is infamous for holding a grudge against the King of England, a country which closely neighbors France. Because of this rivalry, the two countries have never been able to concentrate on taking care of their own issues, instead concerning themselves with outdoing the other by way of snide remarks, fabulous dinner parties, and convenient marriages.

King Jean Valjean, however, after awaking with a cough one morning, decided that he could no longer wait for his layabout son, Grantaire, to find an appropriate person to marry. After all, he was already nearly the age of twenty-two, and it was high time he found himself a husband or wife suitable for his position as the future King of France.

Normally, King Jean Valjean was rather easygoing. Ever since his famous false arrest as a bread thief back in ’02 (which he never let anyone forget about) he decided to live life without a care in the world, and simply be grateful for his second chance, and for the fact that he didn’t have to actually rely on stealing in order to survive. Unfortunately, this empathy for the impoverished in his country didn’t extend far enough to provide him any real motivation to help the people. He had enough to worry about without taking the citizens into consideration.

* * *

Grantaire awoke with a pounding hangover, greeting the warm summer’s day with a groan and mumbled profanity. Once again, he’d been out all night with his two best friends, Joly and Bossuet, drinking and gambling. He grabbed his pillow and forcefully placed it over his face, trying desperately to block out the sun as the world spun around him.

In the distance, he could hear his father, the king, talking with one of his advisors. He heard him cough a few times, before continuing, in his loud, booming voice. Grantaire did not have to guess what they were talking about. Ever since his father had first become ill with a slight cough (a symptom, Joly had informed him, was certain to lead to a fatal case of tuberculosis), he’d grown extremely paranoid about Grantaire marrying before his death. Grantaire groaned again into his pillow. He didn’t want to think about his father dying, and he certainly didn’t want to think about marriage. His entire life, he’d been unable to find anyone with whom he’d ever consider forming a relationship.

Then again, he wasn’t completely surprised that he’d thus far had zero luck in the dating field. After all, he was the Prince of France, and with that title came the immense responsibility of marrying someone who was good for the country. It didn’t help that he was so frequently described as ugly, even frighteningly so, by both family and friends hoping to spare him the pain of inevitable rejection due to his unattractive appearance. Therefore, when men and women from all over the country hit on him and said how wonderful and interesting and handsome he was, their words were only harder to hear knowing that they were solely after his title and money.

“Grantaire!” he heard his father shout up the stairs. Grantaire rolled out of bed, catching himself unsteadily on his feet, and throwing on a royal blue robe before lazily heading out of his door and down the stairs to greet his father. He could hardly wait for the exciting wisdom his father would impart on him today.

“Grantaire, I heard a disturbing rumor,” Valjean began as Grantaire entered, dragging his feet and looking the very picture of angsty teenager.

“Really?” Grantaire asked, his voice scratchy from a night of drinking.

“Yes,” Valjean said, giving Grantaire’s robe and unkempt hair a glance before ignoring them and continuing, “as you know, the semi-annual ball is at the end of this week, and all sorts of people will be attending.” He paused for emphasis before adding, “Including your cousin Marius.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, and placed his head into his hands, silently praying that his father wouldn’t feel the need to go on and on again about Marius.

Despite being Grantaire’s cousin and a relative of Valjean’s, Marius was all but disowned when he travelled abroad to France’s enemy country and fell in love with an English princess named Cosette. Against the advice of his close family and friends, he decided to marry her, and the two of them became a sort of modern day Romeo and Juliet, except without the tragedy (yes, Shakespeare exists in all universes).

Unfortunately for Valjean, the French law dictates that a king or queen must first be married before taking the throne, and if they are not, the throne then passes to the oldest eligible candidate. In this case, if Valjean were to die before Grantaire married, the throne would pass by default to Marius and Cosette. Valjean shuddered at the idea of an English princess leading the country of France.

“Marius has no idea what he’s doing! Marrying a woman from England! He’s crazy!” Valjean cried out, losing himself to a fit of coughing.

“So you’ve said,” Grantaire muttered, “it doesn’t change anything. They’re in love. You know how that works.”

Valjean looked at him like he was crazy. Grantaire always received that look whenever he talked about love.

“Listen, son,” Valjean began, and Grantaire could tell he was about to receive a lecture, “when I was your age, do you know what happened to me?”

“You were arrested for stealing a mouthful of bread,” Grantaire said, having heard this story at least seven thousand times.

“That’s right,” Valjean said, “I was arrested by a police officer called Javert. I was kept in horrid conditions until I was finally released one month later. And do you know what I learned during those days?”

“I don’t know, what?” Grantaire asked, playing along, even though he knew exactly what his father learned.

“I learned that I needed to do whatever I could for the kingdom, so that the corruption in our government, and our justice system, would not go unchallenged,” Valjean finished, dramatically.

“I don’t see what my marriage has to do with that,” Grantaire said, frustrated. He wanted to accuse his father of being too blinded by his grudge against England to enact any positive changes for the country, but thought that might be a little harsh when his father was only a few weeks away from his death bed.

“Grantaire,” Valjean warned, “I swear to god, if you refuse to marry because of some misguided romantic nature and the throne falls to Marius, I will personally come back to this world and haunt you, and make your every moment miserable.”

Now, this threat might sound ridiculous, but in this universe, and in this France, magic and ghosts and the supernatural were not all that unknown. Of course, there were certain taboos attached to magic and those associated with it, but its existence was accepted, and often feared.

Grantaire, however, was not afraid of his father coming back to haunt him. Already it felt as though his father was a ghost following him around and judging everything he did. Without a word, he went back up to his room, contemplating how much he despised royal politics, and his father, and the lack of free will he had over his own life. He knew that he would be forced to pick a partner for marriage at the ball, and he knew exactly the type of people who would be in attendance – shallow, vapid aristocrats looking to move up the political and social ladder by marrying into royalty, despite the fact that they couldn’t care less about Grantaire.

Instead of punching the wall, which Grantaire learned wasn’t exactly the most inconspicuous way of dealing with a lack of control and general upset over life, he fell back to sleep, praying that the next time he woke up, he wouldn’t be so hungover, and he’d magically be reborn a different person.


	2. Act I

Unfortunately, only his hangover wish came true, as he awoke to the sun setting slowly below the horizon, casting a golden light through the window and onto his bed. He took a moment to orientate himself, remembering the conversation he’d had with his father, and fighting the urge to crawl back into bed and come out after Marius had been crowned king. A part of him was tempted to just run away and become a starving artist on the street or something. He’d probably be able to change more by living amongst the people and understanding them, rather than ruling from inside a castle. And yet, part of him knew that he couldn’t let his father down. Valjean was counting on him to take his place as the King of France – it was literally his dying wish – and Grantaire was already such a disappointment in every other area, he didn’t want to let him down with the one thing that mattered most.

He wandered downstairs but his father was nowhere to be found. Since it was nearly sundown, Grantaire assumed that he was either resting or in a meeting with his advisors, probably putting together his final will. The thought made Grantaire a nauseating combination of depressed, nervous, and anxious, and he suddenly felt the overwhelming need for fresh air. He went back up to his room and gathered his art supplies, shoving them into a bag, hoping to find some inspiration for his art around the city. For Grantaire, art was a form of escape, allowing him to express himself in a way that he wasn’t able to as a public figure. He knew that his future partner would probably scoff at the idea of wasting time with art. It wasn’t exactly valued in this society.

He exited the door and the gates which surrounded the castle and made his way down their private road, towards the forest which stood at the edge of the city. He’d gone into the forest a few times, though it was generally avoided by all, as it was rumored to be filled with unsavory folk such as bandits, witches, warlocks, and bread thieves.

Today, however, Grantaire, was feeling particularly reckless and plus, the forest was rather beautiful at night, and he wanted to draw something that reflected his inner melancholy emotions.

He walked deeper and deeper into the forest, deeper than he’d ever gone before, until the path had all but disappeared, the trees becoming wild and the sun barely shining through the thick overhanging leaves. Grantaire shivered even though the night was warm, and held his supplies close to him, growing paranoid about what he might find in the woods. Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him, like the cracking of a branch under someone’s foot. He whipped his head around, seeing nothing but the black silhouettes of trees. He looked to see if someone was attempting to hide in the shadows, but could only see the dense forest, barely lit in the fading sunlight. He heard another snap, and was overcome with fear. He began running through the forest, panting, fighting the urge to scream. All of a sudden, his foot caught on a root and he went flying through the brush ahead of him, landing on his face.

Grantaire quickly recovered himself, glancing behind him, letting out a sigh of relief that no one was around to rob him or laugh at him. Only then did he look up and see where exactly he was. It was unlike any place he’d ever seen, and it took him a moment to catch his breath from the awe of it. Before him was a large lake, that seemed to glow in the fiery sunlight. Around the edge grew flowers of pink and yellow, brightly outlining the waves which gently caressed the shore. The wind cast ripples against the lake, drawing ephemeral designs upon the water. Grantaire’s eyes, however, were immediately drawn to the three swans which were swimming upon the lake’s surface. They looked so peaceful and serene, and Grantaire knew at once he needed to draw them. He neared the lake slowly, hopeful that he wouldn’t frighten them away. As he came closer, all three swans turned in unison and looked at him. At first, Grantaire thought that they might fly away, but upon closer inspection found that they actually appeared to be glaring at him, as though wondering why he thought it was okay to disturb their lovely evening by stomping around and running and tripping. Grantaire shook his head, realizing that it was stupid to feel self-conscious over a couple of swans, and sat down at the edge of the lake. As he took out his supplies, he realized that the sun was nearly set, and lamented the loss of the natural light. Of course, he had forgotten to bring a flashlight or anything useful for seeing in the dark. Forget drawing, how on earth would he get home?

As he was attempting a quick sketch of the swans, the largest one swam up to him, and let out a loud honk. It sounded pissed. Grantaire jumped back, unsure if he was under attack. Without warning, the swan exited the lake and began waddling towards Grantaire, who was trying his best to crawl back. Suddenly, there was a loud cracking sound and the three swans were surrounded by a thick fog, making them impossible to see. Grantaire tried his best to wave the fog from his vision, squinting his eyes to locate the random attack swan. However, when the fog cleared, there were no swans in sight. Instead, there were three young men, around Grantaire’s age, although significantly more attractive. Grantaire’s jaw dropped at their sudden appearance, but the boys seemed altogether disinterested, as though transforming from swans was just a daily occurrence.

The one closest to Grantaire was dressed in jeans and a sweater vest, and was currently pushing up his glasses, running fingers through his wet, brown hair. In the lake, there were two others, one with auburn hair, pushed back from the water, and swimming towards the shore, the other laying belly-up like a corpse, and seeming not to care one way or the other if he was a swan or not.

“Excuse me.”

Grantaire turned towards the young man with the glasses, trying to pull his thoughts together. This had to be some sort of magic, which could turn swans into humans, or humans into swans. But who performed it? And why? And where were they now? Grantaire regretted coming into the forest.

“Oh, hello,” Grantaire said, stuttering, hoping that he wouldn’t be turned into a swan.

“Can we help you with something?” the man asked, rudely, glaring at Grantaire.

“Now, Combeferre, be polite to our guest,” the second man said, rising from the lake, completely naked. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm.”

“It doesn’t matter; he’ll only get in the way. And for the love of god, Courfeyrac, put on some clothes,” Combeferre said, looking annoyed with every single thing.

“I don’t mean any harm, it’s true,” Grantaire said, “I thought you were swans and wanted to draw you.”

“We were swans,” Courfeyrac explained, “but now it’s sundown, so we’re human.”

“You guys are under some sort of spell?” Grantaire guessed, remembering the stories he’d been told as a child of the dark magic performed in the forest at night. He was so bad at listening to advice.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac said.

“How is the spell broken?” Grantaire asked, incredibly curious, feeling as though he had somehow entered a fairytale.

“True love’s kiss, for all I know,” Courfeyrac said, laughing. “No, seriously, I have no idea.”

“Who cursed you?” Grantaire asked.

“Oh my god,” Combeferre suddenly interrupted, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you really think we have time to sit here and explain our life histories to you? We’re busy. We need to go into the city before the sun comes up.”

“Oh, sorry,” Grantaire said, quietly, not wanting to get into a fight.

“Come on, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac called to the third person, still floating in the water as though life were too much to handle. “We have to get going.”

Enjolras swam over to the shore, as graceful as if he were still a swan. When he exited the lake, Grantaire was absolutely struck by his beauty. He wore tight black pants and a red coat, and he knelt down to pull a pair of boots from behind a nearby bush. He had long, gold, curly hair which was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and he turned to stare at Grantaire with wide, blue eyes. Grantaire struggled for something flirtatious to say, but it seemed as though what little tact he possessed was utterly gone. Instead, he just stared, causing Combeferre to glare at him and Enjolras to blush.

“Where did you come from anyway?” Courfeyrac asked. He was now dressed in a similar fashion as the others, although Grantaire couldn’t remember when he’d gotten dressed or where the clothes had even come from.

“Uh—” Grantaire began but was immediately interrupted by a suddenly enraged Enjolras.

“Wait a minute,” Enjolras shouted, marching towards Grantaire and crossing his arms. Grantaire struggled to meet his gaze, nervous by both their close proximity and the fact that Enjolras looked ready to kill. “You’re Grantaire, aren’t you? The Prince of France?”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre audibly gasped at this proclamation and Grantaire immediately regretted not disguising himself. Of course, it was dangerous for someone like him to be walking around the city, but he hardly thought he’d encounter such a problem in the middle of the forest.

“Yes, I am,” Grantaire admitted, knowing that there was no point in lying.

“You know your father is a self-righteous swine whose only concern is padding his pockets, right? That he couldn’t care less about the people of this country? You know he’s selfish and destroying France?” Enjolras looked ready to punch Grantaire in the face.

“Enjolras is right,” Combeferre said, his eyes flickering between Grantaire and Enjolras. “What the hell do you have to say for yourself?”

“Uh,” Grantaire stuttered. He was never very good at forming coherent sentences under pressure.

“Enough excuses!” Enjolras shouted again, throwing his hands into the air. “Do you want to change France or not?” He was tapping his foot impatiently.

“Sure, I do,” Grantaire said.

“Well, good,” Enjolras said, and he finally seemed ready to calm down. He took his ponytail into his hand and squeezed it gently, a small trickle of water streaming onto the forest floor. “If you really want to be a decent king, you can start by helping us tonight. We have to pass out all our pamphlets before the sun comes up and we’re turned back into swans.”

“Enjolras, wait,” Combeferre said, looking at Grantaire as though he were some sort of nasty bug that crawled onto Combeferre’s glasses and wouldn’t move. “How do we know we can trust him? For all we know, he’ll go back and tell his father!”

“I wouldn’t!” Grantaire said, trying to look sincere. He really wanted Enjolras to like him, and would do whatever it took, even passing out pamphlets that slandered his father. It wasn’t as though he doubted the country had flaws. He himself had pointed them out on numerous occasions.

“No, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, “it’s important that he go with us. This is our chance to change the future. Now let’s go.”

Enjolras started walking out of the forest, seeming to know exactly where he was going. Grantaire ran to walk next to him, but was pushed out of the way by Combeferre, who scowled at him before taking his place beside Enjolras.

Grantaire dragged his feet along the forest floor as he followed behind the gang, trying not to trip and make a fool of himself. He remembered that swan-Enjolras had probably seen him fall earlier. He began to blush.

“Don’t worry, Combeferre is just a little protective over Enj,” Courfeyrac said, walking next to Grantaire.

“Enjolras doesn’t seem to like me very much,” Grantaire commented.

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow as if to say that no one seemed to like Grantaire very much and the fact that he pointed out Enjolras made it pretty obvious that Grantaire had a mad crush.

“Enjolras is incredibly dedicated to the cause,” Courfeyrac explained, shrugging his shoulders.

Enjolras turned around then and pulled Grantaire by his arm to walk next to him. Grantaire’s heart rate sped up, even though Enjolras was being anything but gentle and didn’t look all that happy to now be walking next to him.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras began, “Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and I are all revolutionaries. A few years ago we attempted to stage a rebellion in June. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“Uh, sure,” Grantaire said, wanting to sound informed.

“You haven’t heard of it,” Combeferre commented, sharply. He was walking on Grantaire’s other side and seemed extremely pissed by this sudden barrier between him and Enjolras.

“Uh, no,” Grantaire admitted, wishing he could stop stuttering.

“Oh my god,” Enjolras said, exasperated. “Have you heard of it or not? And this is the face of France’s future! We’re doomed.”

“Sorry!” Grantaire shouted, frustrated by everyone talking to him like he was an idiot. “Maybe they just don’t bother teaching us about rebellions that failed, because they’re pointless!”

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, before his entire face turned into a scowl.

“Well, you would think that!” he shouted, “it must be so easy for you to just ignore the plights of the common people! It must be so easy for you to just sit in your castle all day and get drunk and sleep contently every night!”

“Yeah, it must be easy,” Combeferre reiterated. Grantaire wanted to glare at him.

“It’s not easy!” Grantaire shouted, even though most of the time it was. “I know the country has problems! But what can I do? My father is in charge, not me!”

“That’s why it’s important for you to be more informed than your father,” Courfeyrac said. He was the only one who seemed to think that the entire night shouldn’t be dedicated to yelling at Grantaire.

“Anyway,” Enjolras continued, his distractingly red lips still pulled into a scowl, “we were intercepted by a wizard named Javert. He cursed us into swans so that we wouldn’t be able to transform this country into a place where every citizen can live equally, and uphold the values of France.”

“Wait, did you say Javert?” Grantaire asked, remembering the ubiquitous story of his father’s arrest.

“The three values,” Enjolras continued, already an expert at ignoring Grantaire, “are liberty, equality, and fraternity.”

“I know the values,” Grantaire muttered.

“Check your attitude,” Combeferre said, with attitude.

“And so,” Enjolras continued, his voice carrying as though he was giving a speech, “we’ve devoted our human lives ever since to passing out pamphlets, and educating the people, so that one day they will rise and take back this country from the corrupt monarchy which leads it.”

“The monarchy has a lot to deal with,” Grantaire argued, weakly. He felt the irresistible urge to somehow justify the actions of his father, if only to make Enjolras hate him less.

“What’s more important than the people?” Enjolras asked, sounding no less angry.

“My marriage, for one,” Grantaire said, quietly, feeling bitter all over again about the ball he’d be forced to attend at the end of the week. If his luck kept up, every single person in attendance would feel the same as Enjolras and Combeferre and he’d spend the entire night getting criticized.

“Excuse me?” Enjolras said, affronted. “Did you honestly just say that your marriage is more important than the people of France?”

By now, they were into the city, and Enjolras was taking them to the inner parts where Grantaire knew the most impoverished people lived – those who couldn’t find work, and were forced to live in the streets.

“It’s just got the king’s attention is all,” Grantaire said.

“So it’s had his attention for twenty years?” Combeferre asked, angrily, trying to catch Enjolras’s eye. “And all the kings before him, they were also concerned with your marriage? I mean, I know you’re not exactly a prize but it shouldn’t be that hard to find someone who wants to marry a royal.”

Grantaire tried not to feel self-conscious when no one came to his defense about not being a prize; even though he agreed with the sentiment, he was somehow hoping that Enjolras wouldn’t notice.

Enjolras didn’t seem to care either way and simply walked into a building labeled _Musain_.

“You two wait outside and keep watch for Javert,” Enjolras ordered Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He then grabbed Grantaire’s arm again and led him into the building. “This is where we store the pamphlets we’ve written up. The owner is a friend of the republic.”

“Cool,” Grantaire said, because he really didn’t know what to say.

Enjolras scoffed at him, and led him through a long tunnel which eventually ended in a single door. Inside, a number of people were sitting around a table. They all looked up as Enjolras entered.

“Enjolras,” one of them greeted. “We thought you might not be coming.”

“Sorry, Feuilly,” Enjolras said. “Do you have the pamphlets?”

“Right here,” Feuilly said, gathering a stack of papers and handing them to Enjolras. His eyes then found Grantaire. “Holy crap, the Prince of France!”

Grantaire turned bright red as everyone in the room turned to look at him.

“Enjolras, you seriously kidnapped the prince?” Feuilly asked, his face pale, looking at the door as though any minute the cops would burst in and simultaneously arrest them and turn them all into swans.

“Please, Feuilly,” Enjolras said, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t risk our cause. The prince actually found Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and I at the lake.”

“You’re serious?” Feuilly asked, still not entirely convinced that Enjolras hadn’t just executed some high-level royal kidnapping.

“I promise,” Enjolras said, and then turned to Grantaire. “You weren’t kidnapped, were you? You came here of your own accord? To become a better person, and a better future king?”

“Right,” Grantaire agreed, not bothering to add that the real reason he came was because Enjolras was the coolest, most attractive person he’d ever met and every single moment in his presence was like looking into the sun.

“Well, be careful,” Feuilly warned, and Enjolras and Grantaire left the room.

When they reemerged, Courfeyrac and Combeferre walked over to meet them, Combeferre glaring.

“Okay, our goal for tonight is to pass out as many of these pamphlets as possible,” Enjolras explained, giving a stack to each person, including Grantaire. “The pamphlets appear to be an advertisement for lingerie, but when opened up and read backwards, they’re actually detailed guidelines listing the supplies we’ll need to gather for the rebellion.”

“You’re planning another rebellion?” Grantaire asked.

Combeferre rolled his eyes, and turned to Enjolras. “This is seriously stupid bringing him. The worst thing we could do is let the enemy know our plan, and Grantaire is undoubtedly the enemy!”

“I consent to try him,” Enjolras said, simply, and Grantaire couldn’t help the smug expression that he sent Combeferre’s way. “He and I will head to Les Halles, and you both take the Marais. Good luck.”

Combeferre looked about to object to Grantaire being alone with Enjolras but before he could say anything, Grantaire was dragged away from him and down the road, clutching his pamphlets close.

“So,” Grantaire said, trying to make conversation and lighten the mood, “you guys do this every night?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, shortly. “It’s important that the people know they’re not alone.”

“Is it really necessary to have a rebellion?” Grantaire asked, “I mean, isn’t that a little extreme? People could die.”

“People are dying now! But I suppose you don’t see that from your palace window,” Enjolras scoffed.

“My life isn’t exactly easy, you know,” Grantaire argued, but his voice was quiet. He didn’t want to fight with Enjolras, but it hurt not to at least have his respect. “My father is dying, and I’m being forced to get married.”

“Oh, forced to get married, the horror,” Enjolras mocked, and then froze. “Wait, the king is dying?”

Grantaire groaned. He forgot that the king’s illness was considered an important state secret, and he wasn’t supposed to tell even close friends and family, let alone a renegade rabble-rouser.

“Did I say dying?” Grantaire laughed weakly. “I mean, dying to get me out of the house. And, you know, married.”

“This changes everything…” Enjolras said to himself, once again perfecting his art of ignoring Grantaire. “If the king is replaced, then the monarchy will be temporarily weakened. It will be the best time to strike.”

“Excuse me, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, trying to get his attention. “I’m the one who will be leading this weakened monarchy!”

 “Oh, right,” Enjolras said, “well, I hope you weren’t too excited to become king. The government should belong to the people, not to one power-crazed teenager with no concern or knowledge for the proceedings of the citizens.”

Grantaire tried not to be offended by Enjolras’s complete lack of faith in his leading abilities, especially when he himself had never contemplated the responsibilities of leading a country. He knew that his father made mistakes, and yet he hadn’t once considered how he would go about fixing them.

“I won’t have to worry about anything if I don’t get married,” Grantaire commented. “The throne will go to my cousin, Marius.”

“Either way,” Enjolras said, waving his hand as though it didn’t matter who was leading the country, as they all must be completely incompetent.

“What’s the point in even showing me around, if you don’t think I’ll be able to change the country for the better?” Grantaire asked, honestly. As fearful as he was of leading, he was even more fearful that his first action as king would be putting down a rebellion that Enjolras was leading. The idea made him sick.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Enjolras said, walking over to a group of people huddled close together in a dark alley. “I’m helping you see the error of your ways, and acknowledge your privileged life.”

“Well, thanks,” Grantaire said, struggling to sound sincere.

“Citizens,” Enjolras said, addressing the group. They seemed to recognize Enjolras, as many of them smiled and greeted him. Almost all of them did double-takes when looking at Grantaire, probably not entirely sure whether or not Enjolras was crazy enough to parade the future king through the streets, and figuring that he’d instead managed to find the prince’s doppelganger.

“Enjolras,” an old woman greeted, standing up and separating from the group. She was dressed in rags and had a small boy clutching her skirt. “Do you have any information?”

“I do, madam,” Enjolras said, putting on a charming smile that would have made Grantaire melt were it directed at him. “Lingerie catalogues.” He handed over a stack of pamphlets to the woman. Grantaire assumed that they were all used to decoding Enjolras and company’s ridiculous secret documents as no one seemed surprised that Enjolras was handing over racy underwear magazines.

“What’s lingerie?” the child asked, looking at Enjolras with bright green eyes, one hand still on his mother’s skirt.

Enjolras blushed a little and knelt down so that he was eye-level with the child.

“It’s sort of like pretty pajamas,” Enjolras explained, his cheeks a light pink. Grantaire was absolutely going to go insane if Enjolras didn’t stop blushing and talking with children.

“I want some,” the child said, smiling, holding a hand out to Enjolras.

“Maybe when you’re older,” Enjolras said, taking the child’s small hand in his own. He looked up at the mother who was grinning, and smiled softly.

He stood up then, and once again addressed the group.

“I’ll be back again in a few days,” Enjolras began, but was interrupted when the woman suddenly grabbed his arm and whispered harshly,

“Javert is coming this way.”

In the blink of an eye, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s arm and dragged him down the alley. Grantaire struggled to look back, to get a glimpse of this infamous Javert, but it was impossible to see anything past the group of people that were blocking the entrance to the alleyway. After making several seemingly random twists and turns, Enjolras finally stopped to catch his breath, his hand still resting on Grantaire’s arm.

“That was close,” Enjolras said, between breaths. “If Javert saw us here, there’d be serious consequences for the people. He doesn’t know that Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and I have continued our work despite the curse.”

Grantaire was also struggling to breathe, as the only other time he’d run from the police was when they tried to arrest him for public drunkenness. He remembered thinking how pissed off his father would be. That seemed like such a long time ago. Having seen the poverty of Paris up close, he could no longer turn a blind eye to the land that he was one day meant to lead. Regardless, he felt compelled to speak his mind to Enjolras.

“You’re crazy if you think those people are going to win a rebellion, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, bluntly. “They’re half-starved. They’ll have little weapons, even if they somehow manage to gather whatever the hell you wrote in your lingerie pamphlet. It’s useless. You’ll get them all killed.”

Enjolras looked affronted by Grantaire’s words. His blue eyes were dark in the night, and his mouth was parted slightly.

“It’s not ideal,” he said, “but we have to try. Things cannot continue the way they are.”

“Then have faith in me,” Grantaire said. “I’m going to be king. I’ll change things.”

“You’re saying that now,” Enjolras said, removing his hand from Grantaire’s arm and tightening the bow that had fallen loose in his hair. “You’ve seen how things are, and you’re feeling sympathetic. But it isn’t easy to change a country. You’ll give up before you even start.”

“You don’t even know me,” Grantaire argued, feeling hurt by Enjolras’s words.

“Exactly,” Enjolras said, “I don’t know you, and I can’t trust you to bring the people the freedom that they deserve.”

“You’ll see,” Grantaire said. “I’ll prove to you that I’ll be better.”

“If you say so,” Enjolras said. “Listen, we have a few more stops to make, and we’re running low on time. The sun could be up any minute.”

“Why not just continue passing out pamphlets tomorrow night?” Grantaire suggested. “Or give them to me and I’ll—”

Before Grantaire could continue, there was a loud crack and Enjolras was hidden by fog. When the fog cleared, there was a large white swan in his place, surrounded by the pamphlets that Enjolras was no longer able to hold. Enjolras stretched his long white neck to look up at Grantaire, and he somehow managed to look utterly annoyed.

“Uh, it’s okay, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, feeling incredibly awkward. He knelt down to gather the pamphlets in his hands. “Why don’t you just show me where to go, and I’ll pass these out.”

Enjolras let out what sounded like an affirmative honk, and waddled down the alleyway, with Grantaire in tow.

Of all the strange scenarios that Grantaire had found himself in, this had to be the weirdest. Here he was, at sunrise, following a swan, carrying around treasonous pamphlets, in the most dangerous part of town. Not to mention he was somehow managing to fall in love with said swan. For the first time that night, he very badly wanted a drink.

Enjolras was especially slow at walking now that he’d transformed back into a swan, and Grantaire had to fight not to walk ahead of him, considering he had no idea where he was going. Finally, Enjolras arrived at a small dilapidated shack. There was a middle-aged couple sitting on the porch, looking at Grantaire curiously.

Enjolras pointed his beak towards the house, and Grantaire wandered over, hoping that this would all go smoothly.

“Uh, greetings,” he said, as he approached the porch.

The couple looked at him strangely, the woman arching an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you the prince?” she asked, with clear skepticism in her voice.

“I get that a lot,” Grantaire said, avoiding eye contact and running a hand through his hair.

“You look an awful lot like him,” she said, still not sounding convinced.

“Uh, Enjolras sent me,” Grantaire explained, eager to change the subject. “There’s some pamphlets here, with, you know, secret code and all that.” He passed over the pamphlets.

“What’s the matter with you!” the man shouted, smacking Grantaire lightly across his head. “Don’t talk about the secret code!”

Grantaire wanted to ask why the hell the man was shouting about it if it was such a secret, but figured he shouldn’t start an argument during his very first encounter with the citizens.

“I’ll just be going then…” Grantaire trailed off, and ran back to the annoyed looking swan waiting for him. Enjolras was busy preening himself and looked up when Grantaire arrived. He honked loudly and flew away into the sunrise.

“Wait—” Grantaire called, but Enjolras was already too far away.

Grantaire looked back to the porch of the shack he’d just left, but it was now abandoned. The street, however, seemed to be getting more and more populated with exactly the type of people that he’d been taught to fear his entire life. Quickly, he made his way back to the castle. The journey was long and nerve-wracking and the entire time he thought about Enjolras and how he could go about seeing him again and impressing him. By the time he reached the castle’s front gates, he was exhausted and ready to sleep for a week.


	3. Act II

Grantaire awoke a few hours later from a rather alarming dream in which he was transformed into a swan by the evil wizard, Javert. However, instead of being a beautiful white swan like the others, Grantaire was rather scraggly and mismatched and no other swans wanted to hang out with him. He remembered in particular that the Enjolras-swan was too busy preening the Combeferre-swan to even notice that Grantaire had transformed.

Feeling dismally lovesick, he made his way slowly out of bed and downstairs, hoping against reason that he wouldn’t run into his father. Of course, the king was waiting for him as soon as he descended the grand staircase, looking incredibly annoyed.

“Grantaire,” he said in his booming voice, “how nice of you to finally show up. I see my impending death and the potential loss of our kingdom isn’t enough to keep you from drunkenly wasting away your nights.”

Grantaire realized his father would be even more pissed if he knew what Grantaire had actually been up to, and decided that he would have to keep his treasonous activities a secret at all costs.

“Yeah, I’m really hungover,” Grantaire said, sounding convincing enough to his ears.

“Your cousin Marius is coming in today,” Jean Valjean informed him. “Perhaps his presence will alert you to just how urgent this matter of your marriage is becoming.”

“I met someone last night,” Grantaire blurted out, thinking of Enjolras and the way he looked at Grantaire with that perfect combination of scorn and disinterest.

“Oh? A royal?” the king asked, all of a sudden incredibly interested in Grantaire’s previously useless night.

“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” Grantaire said, not entirely sure of Enjolras’s social position before he was cursed to become a swan every day.

“A potential partner?” Valjean asked, his voice rising. He stopped for a moment to erupt into coughing.

“Uh, no, probably not,” Grantaire admitted. He knew that Enjolras’s interest in him only existed because of his position and influence in the government. As if anyone as beautiful and interesting and passionate and amazing as Enjolras could ever fall in love with someone like Grantaire.

“Well then why are you bothering me with this?” his father asked, harshly, and once again took a moment to cough violently. He looked guilty when he was finished. “Listen, son, I’m sorry for being blunt. I know that the last thing you want is to settle down, but I hope you will realize that it’s for the good of the kingdom. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must deal with the preparations for the ball.”

With that, his father exited the room, leaving Grantaire in a rather heavy silence. His thoughts were with Enjolras. He thought about Enjolras saying that his concern for the people was fleeting and that he would eventually fall back into his old ways. Grantaire did not want to disappoint Enjolras, and he was determined to impress him. He knew that Enjolras wouldn’t fall in love with him either way, but perhaps they could form some kind of friendship. At this point, Grantaire would take anything.

He called up his two best friends, Joly and Bossuet, and asked them to come to the palace.

When they arrived, they showered Grantaire with questions about his mysterious absence the previous night.

“I was worried about you,” Joly said. “I don’t know if you realize, but the flu is going around.”

“I’m not sick,” Grantaire explained, knowing that Joly would see the smallest symptom and assume imminent death was near.

“You say that now,” Joly muttered, “many symptoms of the flu don’t present themselves until it’s already too late.”

“I probably have the flu,” Bossuet said, without sounding very upset. “And I lost all my money gambling last night. My parents are going to kill me.”

“Speaking of last night,” Joly said, “where were you?”

Grantaire knew that he could trust Joly and Bossuet, and yet, he was hesitant to spread rumors about a potential rebellion, if only because it would put Enjolras in danger, and Enjolras trusted him, and he didn’t want to betray that.

“I met someone last night,” Grantaire tried to say it casually, but he couldn’t stop the blush and smile that crept onto his face.

“Oh my god! Details,” Joly said, sitting down on one of the many luxurious couches around the castle.

Grantaire sat beside him and struggled to think of how to explain Enjolras.

“Well, this is going to sound really strange,” Grantaire began, “but, I was wandering in the forest last night—”

“Are you serious?” Bossuet interrupted, “the forest is so unsafe, R.”

“Bossuet is correct,” Joly agreed, “you could get bitten by a mosquito and contract the West Nile virus.”

Grantaire ignored his friends and continued, “I came across a lake, and there were swans on it. When the sun went down, the swans turned into people.”

Bossuet burst into laughter. “Oh my god, R, you were totally drunk.”

“I wasn’t! I was sober!”

“You just said that swans turned into people,” Bossuet said, still laughing.

“The forest is full of magic, okay! It’s entirely possible that swans could turn into people!”

“If you say so,” Bossuet said, finally gaining control of himself. “Anyway, go on.”

Grantaire glared at him before continuing, “One of the people was named Enjolras. He’s a sort of, revolutionary type. Like, he believes in the people’s freedom and all that. Anyway, he’s so smart and interesting and beautiful. He has this long golden hair, and these bright blue eyes, and he’s just perfect in every way.”

Grantaire realized he was rambling and looked up at his friends who were staring at him with blank expressions.

Bossuet once again burst into laughter.

“Grantaire, you’ve totally lost it,” he said, “you’re completely smitten.”

“If you met Enjolras, you’d realize he was perfect,” Grantaire said, defensively.

“Uh huh, sure,” Bossuet said, “perfect except for the fact that he’s also a swan?”

“He was cursed by a wizard,” Grantaire explained, “the very same wizard that arrested my father as a bread thief all those years ago.”

“Wow,” Joly exclaimed, “I guess your father should be grateful he didn’t end up a swan.”

“I guess so,” Grantaire agreed. He made a mental note to ask his father more about Javert. Even though he frequently tuned out his father’s repetitive stories about the one time he was moderately inconvenienced by a rogue police officer, any information at all about Javert could be helpful in breaking Enjolras’s spell. Grantaire pictured how happy Enjolras would be learning that he didn’t have to become a swan every night. The thought made Grantaire feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“You okay?” Joly asked.

“He’s just thinking about Enjolras,” Bossuet said, singing Enjolras’s name and being as obnoxious as possible.

“Okay, listen, I didn’t invite you guys over just to make fun of me,” Grantaire said, getting down to business, “I actually have a plan. I’m going to go to the castle kitchens and gather a bunch of bread. Then, we’re going to go into the city and pass out food to the poor people.”

“Why?” Bossuet asked, looking at Grantaire like he was crazy. “That sounds like a sure way to get robbed, or killed.”

“Or catch dysentery,” Joly commented.

“We won’t catch dysentery. I was just there last night and I’m perfectly fine,” Grantaire struggled to convince them.

Joly looked at Grantaire as though he were contagious and inched away from him. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“Please, I need your help,” Grantaire said, not above begging, “I want to impress Enjolras.”

“Of course you do,” Bossuet said, and then he turned to Joly, “well, I guess we have to help him. True love is on the line.”

“Fine,” Joly said, “just let me take a few antibiotics.”

So, Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet went down into the castle kitchens and filled up three huge baskets with bread. The staff didn’t even bother questioning what the hell they were doing, as Grantaire frequently asked them for bizarre requests whenever he was high, or drunk, or victim to some ridiculous craving.

Bossuet and Joly both agreed that Grantaire should wear some sort of disguise, in order to avoid unwanted attention from people who might be less than pleased with the way the country was being run. After putting on a top hat and a pair of over-sized sunglasses, Grantaire set out down the road, eager to pass out bread and prove to Enjolras that he could be the People’s Man.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” Joly asked, after they’d been wandering up and down streets for over an hour.

It was a particularly hot day and Grantaire’s top hat was doing him no favors. He was covered in sweat.

“Of course I know where we’re going,” Grantaire said, stubbornly. “I was just here last night with Enjolras.”

“Right,” Bossuet commented, fanning himself with a random paper he’d somehow acquired, “and I’m sure you were paying total attention to the road, rather than the swan princess next to you.”

“I was paying attention,” Grantaire muttered, thinking about Enjolras’s reaction to being called the swan princess.

Finally, Grantaire came across the shack that he’d only just visited earlier that morning. It was much more active than before, with people of all ages going about their business. There were many children running around, playing amongst themselves. Grantaire nodded to the shack and led Joly and Bossuet over, all of them looking distinctly uncomfortable and out of place.

“Citizens,” Grantaire greeted, as they approached. Grantaire recognized the couple from earlier. Everyone seemed to be more concerned with Grantaire’s ridiculous disguise than the basket full of bread in his hands.

“Son, what’re you wearing?” an old man said, looking Grantaire up and down, “it’s sweltering outside.”

“Well…” Grantaire struggled for a feasible excuse. He was never very good at thinking under pressure.

“He wears this for religious reasons,” Bossuet explained.

“Right,” the old man said, not sounding convinced.

“Anyway, we’re here on behalf of the King Jean Valjean,” Grantaire said, passing over his basket, “please distribute these amongst your people. We’ll be back again tomorrow with more.”

“Seriously?” a woman said, coming over to see what the commotion was about. “Why would the king give us food?”

“Because the government is going to change,” Grantaire said, trying his best to emulate Enjolras’s speech-making voice, “this new regime is going to properly represent the people.”

“New regime? You mean the king’s son?” the old man said, somehow managing to look even more skeptical about this whole proceeding, “what’s his name again?”

“Grantaire, I think,” the woman said, “he’s quite ugly.”

Grantaire was used to people commenting on his unconventional looks, but the comments hurt more now that he was worried about impressing someone. He wondered if Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre were gossiping about him right now in swan-talk. He was grateful, at least, for the sunglasses.

“The prince will be a much better ruler than the king,” Bossuet said, picking up the conversation, “you can count on that.”

“Sure,” the woman said, taking the basket of bread over to distribute it amongst the children.

Grantaire, Bossuet, and Joly walked away without another word. They still had two more baskets of bread, and Grantaire was beginning to feel light-headed from the heat.

“Where to next, R?” Joly said, sounding put out.

 _At least he isn’t infamous for being ugly_ , Grantaire thought, bitterly.

“There’s an alleyway we went to last night,” Grantaire said, struggling to think straight. “It’s around Les Halles.”

“There are a thousand alleyways in Les Halles,” Joly commented.

“Well, I’ll know it when I see it!” Grantaire said, unable to mask the annoyance in his voice. He hated losing patience with his friends but this whole idea was starting to seem incredibly pointless. What did Enjolras care if Grantaire handed out some bread? Enjolras was starting a revolution. He was the one making change. The people loved him. Grantaire could never compare to that.

Shockingly, it didn’t take them long to find the alleyway that Grantaire and Enjolras had visited the previous night. Grantaire immediately recognized the child that asked Enjolras about lingerie, and his mother, amongst the crowd.

Grantaire once again introduced himself as a sort of liaison for the king, and was grateful when the group accepted his donation of bread without commenting on his outfit.

On the walk back to the castle, Grantaire found a group of people to give the final basket to, and considered the day a success. Or, at least, as successful as it was going to get.

“So,” Joly said, as they walked back into the castle, relishing the feeling of the cool air, “do you think Enjolras will be impressed?”

“It’ll take more than a few baskets of bread to impress Enjolras,” Grantaire admitted.

“Sounds like you should have aimed a little lower,” Bossuet said, wiping the sweat off his face.

“Enjolras is worth it,” Grantaire said, defiantly. “Even if he only ever thinks of me as a friend, it’s worth it just to be near him.”

Joly and Bossuet exchanged a look that said Grantaire had officially lost control of his life, and then made their excuses to leave. Almost as soon as they exited, Jean Valjean stormed in, his face bright red.

“That Marius, I swear to god…” he muttered under his breath, before catching sight of Grantaire standing in the middle of the hall. He was carrying his hat and sunglasses, surrounded by three empty baskets.

“I won’t even ask how you spent your day,” Valjean commented, “as it was obviously not preparing for the ball. Marius has arrived and is in the guest suite. You should go visit him.”

“Should I tell him that he’ll only get the throne over my dead body?” Grantaire asked, running a hand through his hair. It was matted down from the hat and the hot day. Grantaire knew he probably looked a worse mess than usual.

“I doubt Marius could kill anyone, but it’s best not to test him,” Valjean said seriously, obviously not able to realize when Grantaire was making a joke.

“Listen, I was wondering what you knew about Javert,” Grantaire said, hesitantly. He’d never asked his father for more details about his famous encounter, especially since he was always more than willing to talk about it to anyone and everyone who would listen.

“Ah, Javert!” Valjean began, “he was so sure that I was stealing a loaf of bread, that he arrested me for one month!”

“Yes, I know that part,” Grantaire said, trying to keep the impatience from coloring his voice, “but did you know that he’s also a wizard?”

“Of course I do,” Valjean said, “it’s important for the king to keep track of potential threats to the kingdom, and Javert is certainly a threat. Not only is he a wizard, he is absolutely obsessed with taking the throne for himself. Now that I consider it, arresting me as a bread thief was probably just a ruse for him to somehow snatch the throne.”

“How would Javert ever be king, though?” Grantaire asked, “he’s not even part of our family, and he can’t exactly marry in.”

“I don’t know, son,” Valjean said, stifling a cough and looking around the hall ominously as though Javert was hiding behind one of the many marble pillars that adorned the main room, “all I know is it wouldn’t be wise to underestimate him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Grantaire said, making to leave.

“Just don’t accidentally marry Javert,” Valjean said, with a slight laugh.

Grantaire made his way up the stairs and down the hall to the guest suite.

He knocked gently on the door, hoping that Marius would be asleep and he wouldn’t have to socialize. He was eager to finish the drawing of the swans he’d started the previous night, and maybe woo Enjolras with his artistic skills.

After a moment, however, the door opened to reveal Marius, looking as though he were already a king. His chocolate brown hair was perfectly tousled and his freckled face lit up in a smile when he saw Grantaire.

“Grantaire,” Marius greeted, “it’s good to see you.”

Grantaire entered the room, glancing around. Marius did not waste any time unpacking, and his room was already decorated with various pictures of him and Cosette doing things. They made Grantaire feel impossibly lonely.

“Good to see you too, Marius,” Grantaire said, “how’s England?”

Marius knew that England was a taboo subject with the king and seemed hesitant to answer. Grantaire, however, couldn’t care less about the rivalry between England and France, and was simply happy for Marius, especially when he himself could never hope for such a loving relationship.

“It’s great,” Marius said, “Cosette is really wonderful. Maybe one day you’ll meet her.”

Grantaire wasn’t surprised that an invitation to the king’s ball had not been extended to Cosette, and was suddenly angry about the whole thing. Why shouldn’t Marius be able to hang out with the woman he fell in love with?

“I’m sorry that she couldn’t come,” Grantaire said, honestly. “This whole rivalry is so stupid.”

“Agreed,” Marius said, laughing. “But I’m used to it now. If two people are really in love, not even a country-wide feud can stop them from being together.”

Grantaire just smiled sadly in return. He wished Enjolras was here. He wished he could introduce Enjolras as his boyfriend and Enjolras could tell everyone about the revolution and how Grantaire helps and they could be together forever.

“Speaking of,” Marius said, “I know the king is pushing for your engagement. Any ideas who the lucky person will be?”

“No…” Grantaire began, and then decided that if anyone would be able to understand forbidden love, it would be Marius. “Well, to be honest, I met someone the other night. And I think I’ve fallen in love.”

“After just one night?” Marius said, “they must be rather special. I fell in love with Cosette after just a glance.”

Grantaire remembered when Marius had first told him about Cosette. Grantaire considered the whole thing to be rather creepy and pathetic on Marius’s part. Obviously he had been too quick to judge.

“His name is Enjolras,” Grantaire said, “he’s incredibly beautiful, and smart, and passionate about the people’s freedom. And, you know, he hates the government, and by extension, my father and I.”

“You fell in love with someone who hates you?” Marius asked.

“Well, he hates what I stand for,” Grantaire defended. “I’m trying to convince him that I’m not so bad. But, he’s so wonderful and brilliant and I’m…well, nothing special.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Marius said. “If he’s so smart, he’ll give you a chance. Why not invite him to the ball?”

Grantaire let out a short laugh. “He doesn’t really seem the type to enjoy balls funded by the monarchy.”

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?” Marius asked.

Grantaire supposed Marius had a point and, anyway, what did he have to lose? He thanked Marius and welcomed him back to France, and then headed into his room to quickly finish up his swan drawing.

As the sun began to set, Grantaire took his belongings and headed into the forest, hoping that he’d be able to find the lake again.

After about a half hour of wandering around in the dim, twilit forest, Grantaire finally came across the lake. The sun was already set, and Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were all in their human forms, talking in low voices.

Grantaire thought that Enjolras looked even more stunning than the previous night, and struggled to calm the racing of his heart. He cleared his throat loudly to get their attention.

The three of them looked over in unison, all wearing matching looks of disbelief, although Combeferre’s was immediately replaced with absolute hatred.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I thought I could help with your rebellion,” Grantaire said. He realized he was holding the picture he’d drawn in his hands and wondered if he would get the chance to talk to Enjolras alone and invite him to the ball.

“Please,” Combeferre said, scoffing and rolling his eyes. “You’re clearly spying on us. Just leave us alone.”

Enjolras was running his fingers through his long hair, and glanced at the paper in Grantaire’s hand before walking over to him.

“You really want to help our cause?” Enjolras asked, and he was standing so close that Grantaire could have leaned forward and kissed him.

“Of course he doesn’t,” Combeferre called over.

“I do,” Grantaire said, trying his best to ignore the others and look Enjolras in the eye. “Today I passed out bread to all the places we visited yesterday.”

“Really?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I told you,” Grantaire said, “I want to help the people. I want to help your cause.”

Enjolras looked both surprised and impressed by Grantaire’s words, and Grantaire fought the urge to jump up and down at receiving a positive look.

“What’s that?” Enjolras asked, glancing down at the paper in Grantaire’s hands.

All of a sudden, Grantaire felt incredibly self-conscious about showing Enjolras the drawing. What if he thought it was creepy? What if he thought Grantaire was coming onto him? What if he thought the drawing sucked?

Grantaire hesitantly handed it over, taking a deep breath.

“It’s what I was working on when I first met you. Last night, when you first transformed,” Grantaire explained.

“It’s nice,” Enjolras said, simply, without giving it back.

Combeferre let out a groan. “Can we get going already?”

Enjolras glanced over at Combeferre and said, “I’m going to show Grantaire around a little. You and Courfeyrac head to the Café Musain.”

“Show him around? Are you serious? He’s the prince, I think he’s familiar with the city,” Combeferre commented.

“I’m really not,” Grantaire said. “Today I got lost for nearly an hour.”

Courfeyrac laughed a little at this, and said, “Come on, ‘Ferre. Let them be.”

The two of them walked off into the woods, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire alone.

“Combeferre doesn’t trust you,” Enjolras said, his blue eyes shining in the darkness. “We got into an argument about it earlier. He says you’re a spy, and you’re using us to get information about the rebellion.”

“That’s not true,” Grantaire replied, trying his best to sound sincere. “I didn’t even know about the rebellion until yesterday. And I would never betray you.”

“Why?” Enjolras asked, “we want to overthrow your family’s reign. You don’t owe us loyalty.”

Grantaire wanted to admit that he was doing this for Enjolras, but was unsure how Enjolras would take the confession. On one hand, he might think it was cute, and on the other, he could be incredibly disappointed that Grantaire fooled him into believing he was solely dedicated to the cause. Instead he said,

“I’m doing this because, before I met you, the poverty in Paris wasn’t real to me. I didn’t know anything about the people I would one day lead. Now, hopefully, I will be a better king. If, of course, you don’t overthrow me first,” Grantaire added.

Enjolras stared at Grantaire for a moment, before smiling slightly and nudging Grantaire in the direction that they’d gone the previous night.

“I want to take you to the Barriere du Maine. It’s filled with artists who may be persuaded to join our cause. Much like yourself, I guess,” Enjolras said, indicating the drawing that was still in his hand.

“I wouldn’t really say I’m an artist,” Grantaire said, blushing.

Enjolras looked over, seeming surprised that Grantaire was so flustered. Grantaire silently told himself to keep it together and try not to be too embarrassing.

“I think you’ll like it there, and hopefully you can convince a few people to join our cause,” Enjolras said.

As there wasn’t much of a path in the forest, they were often forced to stick close by each other in order to avoid tripping or falling. Occasionally their hands would touch causing Grantaire to pull his back, blushing furiously, while Enjolras seemed completely oblivious. This made Grantaire even more abashed.

Finally, they reached the outskirts of town where Enjolras guided Grantaire through a series of streets before finally reaching a café from which loud music and cigarette smoke was flowing.

“This does seem like a place I’d like,” Grantaire admitted, causing Enjolras to smile rather exasperatedly, as though unsure whether or not he found Grantaire’s wild nature endearing or irritating.

The two of them entered side by side, approaching a bar filled with Grantaire’s usual night crowd – drunken, loud, and obnoxious. In fact, he made a mental note to mention this place to Joly and Bossuet. The tables were filled with groups of people gambling, and shouting profanities at one another. Everyone was either drinking a pint of beer, or having beer spilled on them. In the corner, it looked like a fight was about to break out. All things considered, Enjolras looked distinctly out of place with his flowing blonde hair and feminine features.

“Are we passing out pamphlets?” Grantaire asked, sticking close to Enjolras. “You have some secret code hidden in a Playboy magazine or something?”

Enjolras scoffed, and seemed to lean into Grantaire. “Of course not. And don’t talk about the secret code.”

Grantaire laughed and walked up to the bar to order some wine. He turned back to Enjolras and asked,

“This is okay, right? Blending in with the locals?”

“If you want,” Enjolras said, waving his hand as though it didn’t matter. A rowdy group of men were walking by at the same time, bumping into Enjolras on the way out. Even though it wasn’t very hard, Enjolras was small enough that he almost fell over. Grantaire resisted the urge to go over and punch them all in the face, before realizing that if anything was not likely to impress Enjolras, it was getting into a fight.

Grantaire took his wine from the bartender and went back over to stand beside Enjolras.

“You okay?” he asked.

Enjolras looked at him and raised an eyebrow, rolling his eyes as though Grantaire was the dumbest person alive.

“Just asking,” Grantaire said, taking a sip of his wine.

“Let’s just go around and talk to people,” Enjolras suggested. “This place is popular amongst both peasantry and nobility. It will be helpful to get a consensus of who will stand with us.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, taking a longer sip of his wine. If there was anything he learned from hanging out in these places nearly all his life, it’s that the last thing people want to talk about is politics. Still, for Enjolras, he had to try.

They were headed over to a table when Grantaire heard someone call out his name.

Turning around, he saw that it was none other than Montparnasse, a former suitor. Montparnasse was famous amongst the nobility for being ridiculously flamboyant both in his manner of dress and his behavior. He and Grantaire dated briefly about a year ago, before Grantaire realized that Montparnasse was only with him because of the possibility of one day having access to the king’s money. Grantaire still remembered how humiliated he felt, as he really did believe at the time that Montparnasse cared for him. He remembered being told that he’d be used this way his whole life, and he couldn’t be fooled into thinking that people would ever love him for just being himself, especially when he wasn’t all that attractive or interesting. The memories made him depressed all over again.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Montparnasse said, with a smug grin on his face. He was wearing a bright yellow blazer over a green button-up shirt. Despite his outfit burning the retinas of everyone who stared at it for too long, he somehow managed to make it look as though he hadn’t gotten dressed in the dark. Grantaire always envied that about him – how effortlessly confident he was. On more than one occasion he’d commented that Grantaire wasn’t really good enough to be with him.

“Yeah,” Grantaire muttered, wishing Montparnasse would go away.

“This your new boyfriend?” he asked, pointing at Enjolras. Grantaire blushed furiously and refused to look over at Enjolras who was more than likely incredibly disgusted at the implication of dating him.

“No,” Grantaire said, “we’re just friends.” He didn’t know if Enjolras would even consider them friends, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself further in front of Montparnasse.

“Well, the rumor going around is you need to be married soon,” Montparnasse commented, once again looking ridiculously smug. “Your father is getting desperate.”

“Maybe I would have married sooner,” Grantaire said, meeting Montparnasse’s eyes, “if everyone I dated wasn’t a money-hungry liar like you.”

“Excuse me?” Montparnasse said, his voice rising, “you should be grateful I spent any time at all with you, do you have any idea how pathetic you are—”

Montparnasse’s tirade was interrupted as Enjolras abruptly stepped forward and said,

“That’s enough.”

Montparnasse looked shocked that Enjolras could say anything at all, and immediately turned his gaze towards him. Grantaire felt an immense surge of protection and stood nearer to Enjolras.

“You’re a noble, right?” Enjolras said, and before Montparnasse could respond he continued, “you probably have lots of money to spend?”

“Sure,” Montparnasse agreed, unsure where Enjolras was going with this.

“You should consider donating it to the impoverished people of France,” Enjolras said, and he reached into his pocket to reveal a pamphlet from the previous night. He handed it to Montparnasse.

“A lingerie catalogue? What the hell?” Grantaire had never seen Montparnasse look so flabbergasted.

“You may not know this,” Enjolras said, in his best speech voice, “but Paris is one of the worst cities in the world when it comes to poverty. However, if the wealthy people of France contributed just a little of their money, we could end homelessness and starvation within the city.”

Montparnasse was staring at Enjolras like he’d lost his mind. Grantaire wondered if Montparnasse even knew that donating money was a thing people did.

“Listen,” he said, playing with the sleeve of his bright green jacket, “you’re hot and all, but you’re not making any sense.”

Enjolras blinked his wide eyes once, before taking Grantaire’s hand in his own and saying, “Let’s go, Grantaire.” As he was pulled away through the crowd, Grantaire looked back just in time to see the total look of bewilderment on Montparnasse’s face.

Finally, Enjolras stopped in front of a table near the back, where a group of people were playing dominoes.

“Your friend seemed like a jerk,” Enjolras commented, turning to face Grantaire and letting go of his hand, much to Grantaire’s lament.

“He was an ex-boyfriend,” Grantaire explained, his face burning from embarrassment. He was trying to be cool and impress Enjolras, and now he just felt hopelessly worthless and inadequate.

“You can do better,” Enjolras said, offering Grantaire a reassuring smile. The expression made Grantaire’s heart skip a beat. Enjolras was absolutely the most beautiful person in the entire world.

“Only because I’m the prince,” Grantaire responded, “that’s the only thing I have going for me, and even that’s not enough.”

Grantaire was surprised when Enjolras once again grabbed his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You have many positive attributes, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, “and that’s without being a prince.”

Grantaire was ready to melt into a puddle on the floor. He was about to ask if Enjolras really meant that, when another voice interrupted them. This one was deeper than Montparnasse’s, but sounded no less smug.

“Well, well,” the man said, and Grantaire turned around to see a tall police officer sneering as though he’d just discovered a huge secret. “If it isn’t Enjolras, the swan princess.”

“Javert,” Enjolras said, and his voice was dripping with so much hatred that Grantaire felt a chill run down his spine.

“Plotting with the prince, I see,” Javert said, “that’s interesting. Where are your other friends?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said, narrowing his eyes.

Javert looked over at Grantaire and he fought the urge to drop his gaze. He wanted to look strong in front of the wizard who cursed Enjolras and was apparently attempting to gain control of his kingdom.

“You really don’t want to mess with someone like me,” Javert said, and he looked so dangerous and powerful that Grantaire was beginning to think he was correct.

Suddenly, a fight broke out on the other end of the bar, complete with screaming and broken bottles. Javert glanced over for only a moment, but it was enough for Enjolras to once again grab onto Grantaire’s arm and lead him around the table and through the crowd to a mysterious side exit that Grantaire hadn’t even noticed.

“We have to go,” Enjolras said, running down the alleyway, dragging Grantaire behind him, “if he catches us, there’s no telling what he’ll do to you. It won’t matter that you’re a prince.”

Grantaire did his best to keep up with Enjolras, despite his arm feeling as though it were about to be ripped from its socket. Finally, they made it back into the forest, both nearly breathless. Grantaire couldn’t believe the incredible amount of exercise he was getting ever since meeting Enjolras.

“The Barriere du Maine is not usually that troublesome,” Enjolras said between pants. He looked over at Grantaire who was nearly doubled over trying to catch his breath. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t usually run,” Grantaire wheezed.

“It’s obvious,” Enjolras said, already looking composed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize Javert would show up.”

“Will you be okay?” Grantaire asked, still out of breath but struggling to look composed as well. “I mean, now that he knows you haven’t given up on the rebellion.”

“I’ll be fine,” Enjolras said, but he didn’t look all that convinced. “We should head back to the lake, it’s nearly sunrise.”

They walked together, hands occasionally brushing, all the way back to the lake, where Courfeyrac and Combeferre were waiting. They both let out a sigh of relief upon seeing Enjolras.

“Oh my god,” Combeferre said, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“We heard Javert was in town,” Courfeyrac said, “he knew you would be at Barriere du Maine.”

“How?” Enjolras asked.

“I have no idea,” Courfeyrac said, “but he’s on to us, which isn’t good.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Enjolras said, giving his friends a smile before turning to Grantaire. “Listen, thank you for coming with me today. I’m sorry it turned into such a mess.” It wasn’t Grantaire’s imagination, Enjolras was definitely blushing.

“Such is revolution, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, smiling. He wanted to pull Enjolras into his arms and never let him go, but figured that would be seven levels of inappropriate. He realized that he hadn’t yet invited Enjolras to the ball and was running out of time before he would once again turn into a swan.

“Uh,” Grantaire began, feeling all the more anxious with Courfeyrac and Combeferre hovering around. “Listen, I know you probably don’t want to, and that’s totally okay, but there’s a ball this Friday at the castle…it’s this stupid thing my father is putting together…I know it goes against basically everything you stand for, but I was wondering…if you would go with me.”

Grantaire was practically whispering when he finally asked, looking down at the forest floor unable to meet Enjolras’s eyes.

There was a pause that seemed to last for centuries before Enjolras finally said, “Sure, I’ll go with you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire looked up to see Enjolras’s token reassuring smile, clearly picking up on how nervous he was.

“Great,” Grantaire said, letting out an audible sigh of relief. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Sure,” Enjolras said. Grantaire turned and walked away, pausing once he was out of sight to collect his thoughts. He couldn’t believe that Enjolras had actually just agreed to go to the ball with him. It’s like all his dreams were finally coming true. He was so incredibly happy for the first time in his life.

He was about to continue his journey back home, eager to be in bed before his father awoke and had time to question him, when he heard Courfeyrac’s voice through the bushes.

“I never thought I’d see the day Enjolras goes to a ball,” he laughed. Grantaire thought he could make out Enjolras’s scoff, but he couldn’t be sure. He knelt down, hoping that they wouldn’t realize he was still there.

“It’s obvious why he said yes,” Combeferre said, sounding pissed, “he’s going to use this opportunity to spy on the king’s plans. Enjolras doesn’t do anything if it isn’t for the greater good.”

“Is that right, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asked, “you’re not falling in love with Grantaire, are you?”

The question was followed by such a heavy silence Grantaire was unsure how the others didn’t hear his heart as it threatened to beat from his chest.

“Of course not,” Enjolras said, finally.

“So, use this ball to our advantage!” Combeferre urged, “find out the king’s secrets. Find out the size of his army, where he stores his weapons, things like that.”

“I can’t just go gallivanting around the castle,” Enjolras said, sounding distinctly more depressed than usual.

“Oh, please,” Combeferre said. “Grantaire is obviously in love with you. He’ll let you do whatever the hell you want.”

Enjolras didn’t have a chance to respond before the first ray of sunlight crept over the horizon and Grantaire heard a popping sound. He knew that they’d all been transformed back into swans.

Despite the overwhelming urge to burst into tears, Grantaire made his way slowly home, scolding himself for ever believing that someone like Enjolras would actually love him, or even willingly want to spend time with him. He’d been fooling himself. How many times had Grantaire been told that he wasn’t good enough?

As he climbed the castle steps, walking down the hallway passed Marius’s room and into his own, he couldn’t feel any resentment towards Enjolras. He thought about how perfect Enjolras was, and how he’d held his hand at the Barriere du Maine, and he cried himself to sleep.


	4. Act III

The next morning seemed to drag on from start to finish. The king recruited Grantaire from eight o’clock to help with preparations for the ball, because apparently a thirty-person staff wasn’t sufficient. At around noon, Marius finally dragged himself out of bed and entered the main hall, where Grantaire was busy stringing beads together for decoration.

“Good morning, Grantaire,” Marius greeted.

“You might want to go back to bed,” Grantaire warned, “or my father will insist you compensate for betraying the kingdom by taking part in a variety of tedious arts and crafts projects.”

Marius eyed the gaudy beads in Grantaire’s hands, and said, “your father is seriously going to decorate the castle with that?”

“Honestly, I think he’s just trying to get me to stay inside,” Grantaire commented. He knew that his father had ordered a plethora of decorations months in advance including new lights, flowers, tables, and fountains. He hardly thought that his beaded ornaments were going to make the cut.

Marius sat down next to him on the couch, and asked the question that Grantaire was dreading,

“So, how did it go last night?”

“He said he’d go,” Grantaire said, simply.

“Seriously? That’s great!” Marius’s incredible excitement made Grantaire want to puke.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, unable to muster much enthusiasm. It was one thing to convince himself that Enjolras was going to the ball because he liked him, and another to have to convince someone else. He felt emotionally and physically drained, and couldn’t muster the energy.

“What’s wrong, then?” Marius asked, sensing Grantaire’s obvious melancholy.

“I overheard him talking with his swan friends,” Grantaire explained, without lifting his eyes, still mindlessly stringing beads together. “He’s only going to get information about the crown’s army and weapon supply.”

“Wow,” Marius said, quietly. “I’m sorry. Why not uninvite him, then? You can’t hate your father that much.”

“Because I’m in love with Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “I would do anything for him.”

“I understand that feeling,” Marius said, honestly, and Grantaire realized that of all the people he’d ever known, Marius was just about the last person he thought that he would ever be able to relate with. Although meeting Enjolras had been the greatest moment of his life, he fleetingly wished it had never happened.

“Listen,” Grantaire said, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “Would you tell my father that I went into the marketplace to buy supplies for the ball?”

“Why?” Marius asked, skeptically.

“I want to go down to the lake and see if Enjolras is there,” Grantaire said, “I just want to talk to him.”

“Of course,” Marius said.

Grantaire handed over his beaded atrocity to Marius and dashed out the door before his father could ask where he was going. Grantaire was always a horrible liar and he knew that his father would realize straight away that he wasn’t headed to the marketplace for food. He felt momentarily guilty for leaving Marius with such a weak excuse when Marius was already in the bad books with the entirety of France, but couldn’t be bothered to think up something more believable. He needed to talk with Enjolras.

He practically ran down the road and into the forest, at this point moderately familiar with the layout of the woods. He realized that he’d never been there during the day, and took a moment to take in the beauty of his surroundings. The fact that this was Enjolras’s home made it all the more lovely. Although he supposed Enjolras would rather not be forced to live in the forest.

Finally, he came across the lake. Three seemingly identical swans were idling about on the surface, although one was occasionally dipping its head under the water to look for fish.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire called over to the swans. He thought he’d be able to recognize who was who, but realized now that it was an impossible task. Each swan was pure white with a distinct look of self-righteousness.

Upon hearing Grantaire, the swans turned to look over. One of them let out a loud, angry honk and began to flap its wings maniacally. Grantaire figured that must be Combeferre.

“I just want to talk,” Grantaire said, raising his hands in a sort of surrender. He didn’t doubt for a second that Combeferre would use his swan talons and beak to his advantage in an attack.

While the other swan continued to fish, the third swam slowly over to Grantaire, its long neck bobbing slightly. It finally reached the edge of the lake and began to waddle over.

Grantaire sat down upon the ground as the swan approached, and held out his hand. The swan touched it with its beak.

“Enjolras, is that you?”

The swan honked softly.

“You’re not Combeferre, right?”

The swan tucked its feet under itself and began to roost.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked again. He wanted to be sure before he started talking about emotions.

The swan let out a frustrated honk.

“Okay, sorry,” Grantaire said. Enjolras reached his long neck over to Grantaire’s face and gently pecked at it.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here during the day,” Grantaire said. It felt strange to talk to Enjolras when he couldn’t talk back, but coming here during the night was out of the question. For one, his father would basically have him on lockdown, and also, he didn’t know if he’d be able to face human Enjolras in all his angelic beauty and innate intimidation.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m so happy you’re coming to the ball with me,” Grantaire began. Enjolras tilted his head and looked at Grantaire with one large eye, fluffing his feathers.

“I know that you’re only going with me to try and get information for your rebellion,” Grantaire continued. He was hoping that Enjolras would let him explain himself before getting angry that he listened in on a private conversation. Even though Grantaire was technically the one being taken advantage of in this situation, he still felt remarkably guilty about the whole thing.

“I just wanted to tell you that I know, and I’m not mad,” Grantaire said. He couldn’t tell what Enjolras was thinking, and wished swans were more emotive. “I guess it’s obvious to you and your friends, but I really like you. So the fact that you’re going with me at all means a lot.”

Before Grantaire could continue, Enjolras stood up and waddled closer to Grantaire, jumping into his lap and once again fluffing up his feathers to roost. Grantaire was so surprised by the action that he temporarily forgot what he was talking about.

“Uh, okay,” he stuttered, “hi there.” He brought his hand down upon Enjolras’s back and gently pet him. Enjolras didn’t try to peck him and so he figured it was okay.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to sabotage my father at the ball,” Grantaire whispered. “Honestly, I don’t even know where you’d look for all that secret information.”

Enjolras honked, and shook his tail. Grantaire had absolutely no idea what was going on, but it seemed like Enjolras was content and so he continued his wing petting.

They stayed that way for a while longer, until the sun began to lower in the sky.

“Listen, I should go,” Grantaire said. “I need to be back at the castle.”

Enjolras jumped off of Grantaire’s lap and looked up at him questioningly.

“Maybe I’ll see you later,” Grantaire said, and walked away without another glance.

He felt incredibly stupid and cowardly for coming here and talking to Enjolras when Enjolras couldn’t even talk back. It wasn’t fair, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Enjolras had changed his mind about ever wanting to see him again.

When he returned to the castle, the whole main entrance was filled with silver decorations. Lamps were hung from the ceiling casting a bright light upon the hall. The whole castle seemed to be glowing.

Within moments, the king appeared through one of the many doors and stomped over to Grantaire, coughing into a handkerchief.

“Going into the marketplace for supplies, huh?” Valjean said, between coughs, “I guess you just conveniently forgot that we have servants for that sort of thing?”

“I needed some air,” Grantaire muttered, totally not in the mood for this.

“Marius told me that you’ve invited a certain someone to the ball,” Valjean said, unable to keep the excitement over Grantaire’s prospective suitor from his voice.

He would have to remember to thank Marius later for his complete lack of discretion when it came to Grantaire’s embarrassing love life.

“It’s true,” Grantaire admitted.

“Well thank god for that,” Valjean responded, “although don’t think that there will be any shortage of candidates at the ball. I made sure to call in every bachelor and bachelorette in the country.”

“Wow, thanks,” Grantaire said, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

“Cool the attitude, son. I know you think you’re in love and all that, but life doesn’t always turn out the way you want,” Valjean said, showing every sign of going into a lecture. “When I was arrested as a bread thief by the evil wizard Javert, every night I would fall asleep in my cell and think to myself: how did this become my life?”

“That’s very inspiring,” Grantaire commented, in a monotone voice, before excusing himself and heading upstairs to his room where he could mope and think about Enjolras in peace.

He laid in bed, watching the sun set below the horizon. Enjolras would be in his human form now. Grantaire knew he’d implied that he would visit Enjolras at the lake, but the more he considered it, the more it seemed like a horrible idea. Even though Enjolras had seemed polite in his swan form, he couldn’t be too happy about Grantaire spying on him and visiting him when he was vulnerable.

About an hour later, there was a knock on Grantaire’s door. He opened it to reveal one of the many servants that worked in the castle.

He was informed that a man was at the door, wishing to speak with Grantaire.

Grantaire practically flew down the stairs, hoping that it was Enjolras and that he was at the castle because he missed Grantaire and wondered why he wasn’t at the lake. Then again, he could have come to tell Grantaire that he would be unable to make the ball as he really couldn’t be seen with a totally insensitive, unnaturally ugly prince who only shared his feelings when the other party was incapable of responding.

Grantaire was shocked to see Combeferre standing in the entryway, looking his usual shade of pissed off. Somehow, he managed to look even angrier upon seeing Grantaire.

“Uh, hello,” Grantaire said, walking awkwardly over to Combeferre.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre said, practically spitting his name. “How interesting seeing you at the lake today.”

“I wanted to talk with Enjolras,” Grantaire said, in a low voice.

“Oh, so of course you’d visit him when he’s a swan,” Combeferre said, his voice murderous.

“I know it was a mistake,” Grantaire said, trying to defend himself. “Is he upset?”

“It doesn’t matter whether or not he’s upset,” Combeferre said, “the point is you’re no good for him. I don’t know what you expect to get out of this relationship, but I’m not going to let you take advantage of Enjolras’s feelings. We’ve worked hard for this rebellion, and I won’t allow you to ruin it.”

“I would never hurt Enjolras,” Grantaire argued. “I love him.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’ve only just met him.”

“Please, believe me,” Grantaire pleaded. “I would never hurt him.”

“You’re hurting him just by being around him. You know that the wizard who cursed us is obsessed with taking the throne, right? You’re an easy target for him and now Enjolras is associated with you. If you really care about Enjolras at all, you’ll leave him the hell alone before you cause more trouble.”

“Enjolras is in trouble?” Grantaire asked, panic heavy in his voice. “Because of me? What did Javert do?”

“Just stay away from us, I’m serious,” Combeferre warned one last time, before turning and walking out, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.

Grantaire’s mind was reeling. If what Combeferre said was true, Javert could be planning to use Enjolras to get to Grantaire in order to steal the throne. His future title as king never seemed less important. He would do anything for Enjolras, and the idea that he’d inadvertently gotten him into some sort of danger made him feel sick. And yet, what could he do? Going out and trying to find Enjolras now would only attract more attention to their relationship. Perhaps the best thing to do really was to avoid Enjolras and act as though he didn’t care about him. Grantaire sighed. He knew that would be impossible. Enjolras already felt like his missing half, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to exist without seeing him. Plus, they’d already agreed to go to the ball together.

Grantaire wandered back upstairs and fell into bed, thinking about how he could protect Enjolras. He thought about how Enjolras would scoff at the idea of needing protection. He didn’t fall asleep until the sun was coming up above the horizon, and Enjolras was already returned to a swan.

* * *

The next morning Grantaire awoke as usual with Enjolras on the mind. He’d had another vivid dream involving swans – although this time the Combeferre-swan was pecking out his eyes while the Enjolras-swan preened himself. It was profoundly disturbing.

Grantaire was once again greeted by his father almost as soon as he stepped out of his room, and was told that he should assist Marius in organizing the table pieces.

“Just don’t mess anything up,” his father said, and he sounded nervous.

“Something wrong?” Grantaire asked.

“No, nothing,” his father said, entirely unconvincingly.

“What is it?” Grantaire asked again, feeling anxious.

“I received a message from Javert this morning,” Valjean admitted, once again looking around the hall as though Javert had a habit of sneaking up on him. “He seemed to be under the impression, as a result of this ball, that he’d be taking my place as king.”

“How?” Grantaire asked.

“He didn’t say,” Valjean said, “in fact, the note was frustratingly cryptic. I think Javert might have been trying his hand at poetry or something. Either way, I hired extra security for the ball and everyone has been given a picture of Javert. He shouldn’t be allowed within the gates.”

“Maybe it’d be better to just cancel,” Grantaire suggested, thinking of Enjolras. Combeferre’s visit last night and this mysterious note were too coincidental – Javert had to be planning something and if he was, Enjolras was without a doubt in danger.

“Can’t do that, son,” Valjean said, with a slight cough. “The people require stability in times of distress. To cancel the ball would be showing weakness to Javert. We must be strong.”

With that, the king wandered off down the hall, coughing loudly and not looking very strong at all.

Grantaire sighed and walked down the stairs, considering Javert’s threat. The ball would surely be an ideal place to attack, as many important people would be there both in terms of nobility and political standing. Also, because of Grantaire and his stupid crush, Enjolras would be there. If his father was heightening security in order to protect the palace from Javert, it was entirely possible that he would somehow use Enjolras in order to gain access to the ball. After all, Javert was a wizard. He probably had all sorts of powers outside of turning revolutionaries into swans.

He found Marius organizing the table pieces, although none of them were centered and quite a few had fallen over.

It was only when Grantaire neared closer to the tables that he realized the center pieces were, in fact, glass swans.

“Whose idea was this?” Grantaire asked.

“Not sure,” Marius said, and, seeing Grantaire’s scandalized expression, asked, “you don’t like swans or something?”

“Or something,” Grantaire muttered.

“Your father seemed pretty nervous this morning,” Marius said, attempting to sound casual, as though he wasn’t inquiring about state secrets.

“He received a threatening, poetic note from Javert,” Grantaire said, having no discretion for keeping secrets – except, apparently, when it concerned Enjolras.

“No way,” Marius said, in awe. “He has to cancel the ball, then. Every guest could be in danger.”

“I know,” Grantaire agreed, “but he won’t. We’ll just have to be on guard.”

“Between Javert and your Enjolras,” Marius said, “it seems like half the people in attendance will be plotting against your father.”

“Seems that way,” Grantaire commented, the words _your Enjolras_ reverberating throughout his head.

The afternoon went on without incident, although the glass swans had a tendency to continuously fall over unless they were balanced perfectly, something Marius was apparently incapable of accomplishing.

When the sun set low in the sky, the door opened to reveal Joly and Bossuet who, from their loud laughing and carrying on, seemed ready for a night on the town.

“Surely you can sneak away for the night,” Bossuet said. “Especially with the ball tomorrow. You need to relax and unwind.”

Grantaire was struggling with a glass swan, and looked up at his friends. It’d been forever since he’d gone out, and a drink – or twelve – sounded perfect.

“Are you really decorating the tables with swans?” Joly asked, laughing. “Won’t Enjolras be offended?”

Grantaire glared at him.

“What’s he talking about?” Marius asked, wandering over without bothering to fix the swan that he’d been struggling with.

“I forgot to mention that Enjolras turns into a swan during the day,” Grantaire said, feigning nonchalance.

“Oh,” Marius said, speechless for perhaps the first time in his life. “That’s interesting.”

“Anyway,” Bossuet said, “you two need some time away from the castle. Let’s all go out.”

Grantaire didn’t need any more convincing, and he and Marius left the castle and the swan decorations behind, following Joly and Bossuet into town.

It didn’t take them long to reach their usual bar, _L’Ivrogne Perdu_ , which was already filled with noisy drunkards. They ordered beer and wine and a plate of oysters and sat in the corner, preparing for a night of frenzied intoxication.

“I don’t usually drink,” Marius commented, taking a huge swig of beer. Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet exchanged worried looks.

“So, Grantaire, excited for the ball tomorrow?” Joly asked.

“He’s not,” Marius said before Grantaire could respond, his words already slurring. “There’s, like, wizards coming and stuff.”

“Seriously?” Joly asked.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, “but we really shouldn’t talk about that in public, Marius.”

“What?” Marius asked, his eyes having trouble focusing.

“Wizards are dangerous, Grantaire,” Joly said, “they can curse you with sudden illness.”

“Or turn you into a swan,” Bossuet commented. “You’d think your father would be more careful.”

“You’d think,” Grantaire agreed. Talking about Javert made him think of Enjolras and all of a sudden there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world. His head was spinning and the bar felt too small.

“Are you okay?” Joly asked.

At the other end of the table, Marius was giggling uncontrollably for no apparent reason.

“I just need some air,” Grantaire said, getting up.

“I think that’d be a good idea for all of us,” Bossuet said, helping Marius out of his chair and leading him through the maze of people.

They stood in the bar’s entryway, under the yellow-tinged lamps, enjoying the fresh summer air.

A song could be heard playing inside the bar, and it wasn’t long before Marius was attempting to dance.

“Oh good lord,” Bossuet commented, looking around. “Marius, stop. You’re drunk.”

“I am not,” Marius argued. Bossuet just laughed, suffering from a case of contact embarrassment.

Grantaire was almost ready to go back inside and attempt to enjoy the rest of the night when he heard a familiar voice from an alleyway only a few feet away.

It was Enjolras.

He was talking with a group of people, dressed in threadbare clothing, standing beside Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Although Grantaire couldn’t make out many of his words, he could tell from his tone and body language that he was explaining something incredibly passionately – so, probably, how he planned on taking down the monarchy, and why everyone should want to help.

“Damn,” Bossuet commented, following Grantaire’s gaze. “Is that him?”

Enjolras hadn’t yet noticed that Grantaire was standing just a few feet away, and he didn’t want to attract attention to himself, especially when he was feeling just tipsy enough to say something stupid.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Grantaire said, quietly.

“He reminds me a lot of Cosette,” Marius slurred, finally realizing who everyone was looking at.

“Marius, you’re drunk,” Joly commented.

Before Grantaire could inconspicuously usher his friends back inside the bar, Enjolras had finished his speech and was leading Courfeyrac and Combeferre towards Grantaire and his gang. He was looking down at the pamphlets in his hands, seeming to organize them, before looking up and meeting Grantaire’s eyes. There was absolutely no way Grantaire could pretend he hadn’t seen him now.

Enjolras looked surprised at first, before his face lit up in a smile and he started walking briskly towards Grantaire. It wasn’t until they were close enough to touch that Grantaire noticed how pale and sickly Enjolras looked. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his skin, which usually seemed to glow, made him look like a ghost in the lantern light.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras greeted, his blue eyes shining. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were standing behind him, and it was impossible to miss Combeferre’s glare.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Courfeyrac commented. “Not since I was a swan, at least.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. “My father’s had me on lockdown helping with the ball.”

“My name’s Marius,” Marius interrupted, reaching over to Enjolras and offering his hand. Enjolras looked surprised but shook his hand.

“Enjolras,” he introduced.

“Grantaire’s told me all about you,” Marius continued, his drunkenness reducing what little filter he had to begin with.

“Oh?” Enjolras asked, trying to meet Grantaire’s eye.

“Don’t worry,” Marius said, but he was no longer looking at Enjolras and, in fact, seemed to be speaking to the stars. “I think swans are cool.”

Grantaire heard Combeferre scoff, but Enjolras just looked confused as though he was unsure if Marius normally acted this way.

“Can we talk?” Enjolras asked, suddenly. The last thing Grantaire wanted to do was have an emotional conversation with Enjolras whilst under the influence of alcohol, but he supposed he had little choice.

“Of course,” he said, and he led Enjolras a few feet away where they could talk privately, leaving Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet to stare at each other in an awkward silence that was only broken by Marius’s occasional singing.

“You didn’t come to the lake last night,” Enjolras commented, without implying whether or not this made him upset.

Grantaire shrugged and tried to look casual. “My father has been adamant that I stay inside and help with the ball preparations.” He immediately regretted mentioning the ball.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, “I want you to know that I didn’t agree to go with you just to spy on your father.” He paused. “That was something Combeferre suggested afterwards.”

“I already told you it didn’t matter,” Grantaire said, not wanting to relive the sadness and disappointment he’d felt upon hearing those words.

“It’s important you know,” Enjolras said, and was about to continue when he was interrupted by a loud, painful cough. He brought his hand up to his mouth, looking flustered by this inconvenience. His eyes widened when he pulled his hand back and it was covered in blood.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire exclaimed, unable to keep the insane worry from his voice. “Enjolras, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras said, looking unsure what to do with his bloody hand.

Grantaire immediately reached into his pocket and brought out a handkerchief, emblazoned with the royal seal. Enjolras scoffed at it weakly, before cleaning his hand.

“Excuse me,” Enjolras said, as though coughing up blood was just a thing he normally did.

“Enjolras, I know that you’re in trouble with Javert,” Grantaire began, carefully. “Tell me the truth, are you really okay?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras said, he tried to smile but ended up just looking pained. “I’ll be fine, Grantaire. Don’t worry about me.”

“I can’t help it,” Grantaire said. “You mean everything to me.”

Enjolras smiled, a bit of color returning to his cheeks.

“Enjolras!” Combeferre called over, apparently reaching his patience threshold when it came to Marius’s drunken singing. “We need to get going.”

“Right,” Enjolras said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Grantaire.”

“Okay,” Grantaire said, before adding, softly, “are you sure you’re all right?”

“I promise,” Enjolras said, and he reached over to give Grantaire’s hand a squeeze before they both walked back over to the gang.

“We only have a few hours before the sun comes up,” Courfeyrac commented, “we better head out. Nice meeting you all.” Grantaire couldn’t imagine that it’d been nice at all, but he appreciated Courfeyrac’s cordiality.

Enjolras did a once over of Marius, who was busy regaling a stranger with an engaging tale of the time he first laid eyes on Cosette, and Joly and Bossuet, who looked as though they needed another drink, before nodding to Grantaire and heading down the street, Courfeyrac and Combeferre in tow.

“Enjolras seems nice,” Bossuet said, not sounding very enthused. “Can we drink now?”

“Yes!” Marius said, walking away from the stranger, who looked immensely grateful. “Drinks!”

Grantaire rolled his eyes before following his friends into the bar. He hadn’t gotten more than a step inside when he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He turned around to see Combeferre.

Instead of looking his usual manner of incredibly pissed, he just seemed worried.

“Something wrong?” Grantaire asked nervously. He looked behind Combeferre to see if Enjolras and Courfeyrac were with him, but he seemed to be alone.

“You’re seriously asking me that?” Combeferre said. “Did you even see Enjolras?”

“He looked sick,” Grantaire admitted, not wanting to be accused of failing to pay attention to Enjolras’s well being, especially when it was the most important thing in the world to him.

“He is sick,” Combeferre confirmed. “And I think Javert is behind this. It’s too coincidental that Enjolras should just fall deathly ill only a short while after he caught you two at Barriere du Maine.”

“What can we do?” Grantaire asked. The idea that Javert had cursed Enjolras, and that he could be dying, made it difficult to breathe.

“For one, you can take my advice and stay away from him,” Combeferre said, and Grantaire was surprised that the usual harshness was absent from his voice. “I know you care about him, but Javert is going to use him to get to you.”

“Javert did send my father a threatening note this morning,” Grantaire said. “He implied something bad might happen at the ball.”

“Well then the best thing for Enjolras would be to avoid the ball,” Combeferre said, “we’re trying to figure out how to break the curse but until then, Enjolras’s safety is our primary concern. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, hesitantly, “but can’t I do anything to help?”

“Anything you can find out about Javert will help,” Combeferre responded. “I don’t know how much longer Enjolras has if this illness keeps up.”

“I’ll find out whatever I can,” Grantaire said, feeling entirely sober.

“Good,” Combeferre said. “And thank you. Enjolras deserves someone who cares about him – it’s just…not possible for you two, you know?”

“Okay,” Grantaire said, and the combination of wine and emotions made him want to cry. “I want what’s best for him.”

“Then ask around about Javert,” Combeferre said. “Surely the king has some information.” He paused for a moment before excusing himself to leave, walking promptly away in the direction that Enjolras had gone earlier. Grantaire let out a breath.

He no longer felt like getting trashed with his friends – not when Enjolras was busy coughing up blood and dying all because he’d been seen with Grantaire. He wanted to go back to the castle and ask his father everything he knew about Javert, any ideas he had about thwarting the plans of an evil, power-crazed wizard.

Unfortunately, at that moment, he didn’t have his father. He had Joly, Bossuet, and Marius. He supposed that they would have to suffice.

Returning to the table, he found that someone had foolishly bought Marius another pint of beer, half of which was spilled onto the table with each attempt he made to drink. Joly and Bossuet looked engaged in a rather riveting conversation, occasionally casting a look in Marius’s direction to make sure he hadn’t passed out.

“Grantaire!” Joly called, when he saw Grantaire idling by the table. “Join us.”

Grantaire sat down at the table, his solemn mood immediately apparent.

“Something happen?” Bossuet asked, taking a drink from his pint glass.

Grantaire decided to get right to the point,

“What do you guys know about breaking a spell?”

“A spell?” Bossuet asked. His voice was rather light-hearted, assuming Grantaire was making a joke.

“Like, from an evil wizard.”

“This wouldn’t happen to be the same evil wizard that arrested your father and cursed Enjolras to be a swan, would it?” Joly asked, knowingly. “He really has it out for you.”

“Javert,” Grantaire confirmed. “He put a spell on Enjolras and I need to know how to break it, or he could die.”

The giddy atmosphere died down at Grantaire’s words. Even Marius, who probably had no idea what was going on, seemed solemn as the grave.

“What’s the benefit of killing Enjolras?” Bossuet asked. “Just to piss you off?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire admitted. “I think he might try to use him to get into the ball tomorrow.”

“Better tell him not to come, then,” Bossuet said.

“I think Combeferre has that handled,” Grantaire struggled not to sound bitter. He knew that Combeferre was Enjolras’s friend and was only looking out for him, but the fact that he was adamantly telling Enjolras to stay away from Grantaire made him inevitably upset.

“One time, Cosette told me an ancient story from England,” Marius began, his words slurring even worse than before. He looked as though he was attempting to stand up to add drama to the story, but couldn’t quite figure out how to work his legs.

“Not so loud, Marius,” Bossuet whispered, looking around nervously. “Don’t shout about England.”

“I don’t care!” Marius said, bringing his fist down on the table, causing more beer to spill. Grantaire thought that this whole proceeding was uncomfortably like looking into a mirror. “I will tell the story! It was about a young prince who fell in love with a princess. But, because of the politics between the countries, they couldn’t be together.”

“I wonder where she got that story from,” Joly said, smirking. Grantaire realized that, for once in his life, he was the only sober one in the group.

“Joly!” Marius exclaimed, reaching over to pet Joly’s face. “Hello.”

Joly looked ridiculously disturbed by the action and pushed Marius’s hand away crying, “oh my god, you didn’t even wash your hands.”

“Marius, is there a point to this story?” Grantaire asked, wanting to get back on track.

“Uh, yes,” Marius said, sounding totally unsure. “Yes, the princess was cursed to become a swan.”

“This isn’t even a real story,” Bossuet said, tears in his eyes from laughing at Marius’s antics. “You’re just talking about you and Grantaire’s tragic love lives.”

“In the story,” Marius continued, unperturbed. “The spell was broken by true love’s kiss.”

Joly and Bossuet rolled their eyes.

Grantaire laid his head down on the table and wished for more wine, and Enjolras.


	5. Act IV

“I’m never drinking again,” Grantaire heard Marius groaning from his bathroom. Grantaire opened his eyes blearily to the all-too-bright day, the sun shining obnoxiously through the window and birds singing happily. Once his eyes focused, Grantaire could make out Marius in his personal bathroom, vomiting into the toilet. Grantaire then realized he was sleeping on the floor. He couldn’t remember getting wasted out of his mind last night, but apparently he had.

Grantaire gave some incoherent reply, and tried to stand up, feeling totally disorientated and hungover. He very badly wanted some water, bread, and the strongest painkillers available.

“Ugh,” Marius groaned again, struggling to get up from his position slouching over the toilet. “What did I drink last night?”

“What didn’t you drink?” Grantaire replied. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Can’t,” Marius mumbled, making his way slowly into the bedroom and flopping down on Grantaire’s bed, whilst Grantaire lay immobile on the floor. “Your father came in earlier. He was angry. Said we were irresponsible. Blamed me for marrying Cosette. Blamed you for being a useless drunk. Said we needed to be ready for the ball.”

Damn it, Grantaire had almost forgotten about the ball. All of a sudden, the memories of the previous night came rushing back, causing his head to ache even worse. Enjolras was dying. Javert was plotting some attack. Grantaire was going to have to get married, regardless.

“I’m not going to the ball,” Grantaire muttered, throwing his arm over his eyes. “No one can make me.”

“I’m pretty sure your father can,” Marius argued.

Grantaire gave an unintelligible grunt in response, and got up, not bothering to change out of the previous night’s clothes before moping down the stairs, Marius trailing behind, hoping to find some food before his father could catch him out and about.

His plan, however, was immediately hindered, as his father was waiting for him downstairs, looking out of place amongst the silver and blue decorations. Grantaire noted with mild amusement that all the glass swans had fallen over.

“Finally decided to join the world of the living, I see,” his father commented, frustration evident in his voice. His arms were crossed and he was tapping his foot loudly against the marble floors. “I have frequently stressed how important this ball is for the both of you, and yet you go out and get drunk the night before. Explain yourselves.”

“It was my fault,” Marius said.

“No it wasn’t,” Grantaire said, groaning. “What difference does it make? I’m still going to be forced into marriage.”

“I thought you’d already picked someone,” his father commented, coughing.

“Well, thanks to your inability to deal with Javert, he’ll no longer be in attendance,” Grantaire remarked, knowing that mentioning Javert was certain to get his father riled up.

“I will deal with Javert!” Valjean yelled. “Don’t worry about that! Go and get yourselves cleaned up. The ball will begin at five o’clock sharp, and don’t be late. And please, for the love of god, try and look decent.”

Grantaire and Marius stopped by the kitchens to collect all the bread that they could before heading back up into their designated rooms. Grantaire walked into his, laid down on the bed, and passed out, hoping to dream of Enjolras, and a world where they could be together.

After what felt like minutes, but was actually several hours, Grantaire awoke to a frantic knocking on his door.

“Come in,” Grantaire yelled, without bothering to get up out of bed or attempt at all to pull himself together.

The door opened to reveal Marius, looking much more alive than earlier. At least, he was no longer vomiting, or an alarming shade of green.

“Just checking to see if you were awake,” Marius said, quietly. “The ball starts in an hour, you should probably get dressed.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire cursed, rolling mindlessly out of bed and miraculously landing on his feet. Marius, even though he had a perfectly fine bathroom attached to the guest suite, had decided to use Grantaire’s bathroom, and was currently inhabiting it with all manner of hair supplies and potential outfits.

By the time Grantaire had straightened his clothes, still from the previous night, and run his hands through his messy hair, Marius was already tousling his hair with gel and seemed in deep concentration over whether to wear royal purple or royal blue.

“My father would prefer you wear the blue,” Grantaire commented. “So wear purple.”

Marius laughed, and put on the deep purple jacket over his outfit.

“What’re you wearing?” Marius asked, giving Grantaire’s disheveled appearance a look of concern.

“Red,” Grantaire said, simply.

“Ah, the color of desire,” Marius commented, going back to artfully tousling his hair.

Grantaire had no idea what that meant, but figured that red was appropriate both for its lack of connection to the crown, and because it was the color of Enjolras’s favorite jacket.

Grantaire wondered if Enjolras was disappointed or relieved that he wasn’t able to come to the ball. Probably he couldn’t manage to care one way or the other about a stupid dance when his life was on the line. It was incredibly likely that Javert would somehow manage to be in attendance tonight and Grantaire knew that he had to do whatever it took to defeat him, or persuade him into undoing Enjolras’s curse. If Combeferre was correct, their time was running out.

“Do you think my hair looks okay?” Marius asked, looking at himself in the mirror from behind.

“It looks fine,” Grantaire said, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. He looked just as hideous as he’d been described by others his entire life. His unwashed black hair stuck greasily to his forehead and he attempted to push it back in a manner similar to Marius. He knew that he would never be handsome like Marius, or have the angelic beauty of Enjolras. He sighed. He had more important things to worry about right now than his appearance. Throwing on the rest of his outfit, he made his way downstairs, pulling Marius, who showed signs of spending another hour in front of the mirror, alongside him.

The main hall looked even more stunning than when Grantaire had seen it previously, although he supposed that was partly due to his vision no longer being clouded by a massive hangover. His father was bustling around, occasionally stopping to pick up a glass swan that had fallen over. At the entrance way, a series of servants had been stationed, and appeared to be inspecting and searching every guest before they entered. Grantaire assumed this was some kind of security measure against Javert, or anyone else looking for an opportunity to sabotage the king.

Valjean looked relieved when his eyes fell upon Grantaire and Marius.

“Thank goodness you two managed to pull yourselves together,” Valjean remarked. “Although I see neither of you are wearing royal blue.”

“I didn’t bring any,” Marius said, amiably.

“Figures,” Valjean muttered.

Suddenly, there was a familiar, yet unwelcome, voice at the entranceway. Grantaire looked over to find the last person he wanted to see tonight, Montparnasse.

“What the hell!” Montparnasse exclaimed, as the servants attempted to check his pockets for dangerous artifacts. “Do you know who I am?”

Montparnasse was wearing a tuxedo decorated with a variety of bright colors, all of which clashed so horrendously with one another that they somehow managed to look harmonious. His jacket was bright blue, littered with an obnoxious star pattern, layered over lime green and florescent orange.

“You invited Montparnasse?” Grantaire groaned.

“Montparnasse comes from a respectable family,” Valjean said, seeming surprised at Grantaire’s disdain. He had probably forgotten about their disastrous courtship. “It would have been impolite not to invite him.”

After Montparnasse made it through security, brushing off his jacket as though he’d just survived battle, he glared at Grantaire before heading over to the bar.

Grantaire was grateful, at least, that Montparnasse seemed hesitant to come over and berate him after their awkward encounter at the Barriere du Maine.

Over the course of a half hour, the main hall filled with all sorts of people. Many Grantaire remembered seeing at some point in his life, while others were entirely new. His father would occasionally send someone his way, and Grantaire would be forced to dance with them and make awkward conversation. Everyone was dressed their best, and the orchestra that his father had hired was playing something that sounded suspiciously like a combination of Mozart and dubstep.

After finishing up a dance with a young man who asked way too many probing questions about Grantaire’s sex life, Grantaire decided it was finally time for a drink. Honestly, he was surprised he’d made it this long without one.

As he walked through the crowd, he kept his eyes open for anyone who looked suspicious, or anyone resembling Javert. He knew that Javert would likely attend in disguise, but still, he had to try. He wished he knew what was going on with Enjolras. It seemed like they were in entirely different worlds at this point, and he found it difficult to concentrate on the ball with thoughts of a sick Enjolras filling his head.

At the bar, Joly and Bossuet were already taking shots and smiled as Grantaire approached, inviting him to join them.

“Yes, please,” Grantaire sighed, as the bartender poured vodka into a shot glass. Marius walked over to them, his face pink from dancing.

“Want one?” Grantaire asked, indicating the shot.

“Oh dear lord,” Marius moaned, “I told you I’m never drinking again.”

Joly and Bossuet shared a laugh.

“What happened to you last night?” Bossuet asked. “Honestly, I’d never seen anyone so trashed.”

Marius responded with what was probably a story of how he’d only ever had wine coolers before last night, but Grantaire was unable to make out the words. He was entirely transfixed by the person walking towards him now, lighting up the entire hall like the sun. It was Enjolras, appearing more radiant than he’d ever looked before.

His golden hair was shining brightly under the lamps that hung from the ceiling, and he was also wearing red – though he wore it much better than Grantaire. He approached the bar with his wide blue eyes shining, and smiled as he greeted Grantaire by gently taking his hand and pressing it.

Grantaire was too stunned to speak. Behind him, his friends had stopped their conversation about Marius’s drunkenness and were probably also staring at Enjolras. Not only did he take Grantaire’s breath away, he had the attention of everyone who’d seen him come in.

“You look beautiful,” Grantaire blurted out, before he had time to consider what the hell he was saying.

Enjolras laughed at Grantaire’s look of shock and shook his head. “You too.”

Grantaire knew he definitely didn’t, but had more pressing matters to discuss.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Grantaire said, taking Enjolras’s hand and pulling him into a corner where they were relatively away from the crowd, who seemed even more fascinated by Enjolras now that he was speaking with the prince.

“I said I’d come,” Enjolras said. “Don’t you need a date?”

Grantaire chuckled softly at that. “My father has ensured that I have no shortage of dates for the night.” He paused, blushing. “Though I greatly prefer you.”

Enjolras smiled again, and leaned in closer. “Then, let’s dance.”

Enjolras pulled Grantaire onto the dance floor with some force. The orchestra was currently playing a song fit for classic ballroom dancing, and Enjolras seemed to know exactly what he was doing. Grantaire had some experience dancing, and even considered it one of his few talents. He was hesitant, however, to dance with Enjolras, worried that his nerves would get the better of him.

Enjolras, however, had no such discretion, and pulled Grantaire close, swinging him with ease around the floor. Grantaire’s mind was reeling at being so close to Enjolras, aware of every eye on him.

He tried to breathe deeply. He tried to concentrate on what was happening, and not mess up his footing or step on Enjolras accidentally. He was a good dancer. He could do this.

As they continued to dance, Enjolras smiling widely and leaning into Grantaire at every chance, Grantaire noticed that Enjolras didn’t look sick at all. In fact, he seemed far more alive than the first time they’d met, only a week ago at the lake.

Grantaire considered, perhaps, that Courfeyrac and Combeferre had somehow managed to break the spell in time. He also considered his initial belief that Javert had used Enjolras to get into the ball. After all, Javert couldn’t exactly send Enjolras if he was keeling over from illness. Perhaps he’d healed him and brought him here and they were in danger even now.

“You okay?” Enjolras asked, smiling softly, and pulling Grantaire closer. They were still swaying gently to the music. “You look troubled.”

Grantaire looked up to meet Enjolras’s eyes, and he could feel it in his gut that something was wrong. Something about the way Enjolras was looking at him, the way he was holding him so close, and laughing and smiling and carrying on.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras practically purred his name, and brought his hand up to gently stroke the side of his face. Grantaire involuntarily flinched away. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong; he could feel it in the very air between them.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, struggling to calm his racing heart. “Just give me a moment, Enjolras.”

“Sure,” Enjolras said, amiable enough, though his eyes seemed to darken.

Grantaire quickly untangled himself from Enjolras and made his way through the crowd over to the bar, hoping to find his friends. He saw Joly, Bossuet, and Marius talking with three other men that he’d never seen before. He quickly approached them, hoping he’d be able to pull his friends away and discuss his concerns.

Upon nearing closer, however, he realized that he did, in fact, know one of the men conversing with his friends. It was Feuilly, the one who’d handed Enjolras the pamphlets at the Café Musain.

Joly caught Grantaire’s eye and waved him over. Grantaire could tell from the look in his eye and the blush on his face that he was pretty wasted.

“Grantaire!” Joly exclaimed to the group. “The man of the hour.”

“I need to talk to you,” Grantaire said, seriously, trying to convey the urgency of the matter.

“Grantaire,” Feuilly said, looking Grantaire up and down. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m a friend of Enjolras.”

“I remember you,” Grantaire said.

“These are two of our friends, Jean Prouvaire and Bahorel,” Feuilly said, indicating his two friends, each who looked distinctly uncomfortable being at a royal ball, holding their champagne glasses tight. “We’re here on behalf of the amis, incase Javert shows up.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, surprised. He had no idea what the “amis” were, but figured it was just a fancy name for Enjolras’s great group of treason. “Thank you.”

“We’ve been researching with Courfeyrac and Combeferre about potential spells to bind Javert and his magic if he shows up,” Prouvaire began. “This should help Enjolras as well, and potentially break his spell.”

Grantaire was about to remark that the spell seemed to already be broken, when Bossuet suddenly interrupted, glass in hand,

“It’s nearly midnight! Who wants to do a celebratory shot?”

Marius once again groaned loudly.

Grantaire was about to suggest that perhaps they’d done enough celebratory shots for the night, when Enjolras rushed over, nearly pushing Marius out of the way, and pulling Grantaire into his arms.

“What the hell,” Feuilly cried, and Grantaire looked over to see absolute shock painting the faces of the amis. Clearly Enjolras attending the ball was not part of the plan to take down Javert, which meant that Javert himself had to be behind this.

All of a sudden, Combeferre ran over to the group, looking out of breath and incredibly out of place amongst the aristocrats in his dirty revolutionary clothes. With eyes fixed solely on Grantaire he uttered through harsh breaths,

“Grantaire, come quickly. Enjolras is dying.”

Grantaire looked over to Enjolras, who was still standing beside him. Combeferre followed his eyes and let out a short gasp.

“Enjolras is fine,” Grantaire said, quietly, but it came out as more of a question.

“Who are you?” Combeferre asked Enjolras, and Grantaire was surprised to hear that murderous tone directed at someone other than himself.

“Enjolras, obviously,” Enjolras scoffed, and Grantaire thought it was rather convincing. He turned to him. “Let’s go, Grantaire. Combeferre is clearly confused.”

Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’s arm roughly before he could turn away and said, “I was just with Enjolras. You’re either Javert, or working for him. This is some sort of spell.”

Enjolras smirked at him and said, “It’s me, Combeferre. Really.”

Grantaire had felt earlier that something was off with Enjolras but now it seemed incredibly clear. Enjolras had been acting strange since the moment he’d come into the ball. Too familiar, too comfortable amongst the aristocracy he’d dedicated his life to overthrowing and, though he hesitated to admit it, way too willing to be up close and personal with Grantaire.

“Javert,” Grantaire said, though he was just guessing. He didn’t know if Javert would disguise himself as Enjolras, or be somewhere nearby, but, upon seeing Enjolras’s flinch, realized his accusation was correct.

“So your plan was,” Grantaire began slowly, “to kill Enjolras and take his place? And then what, marry me and get the throne?” The whole idea was equal parts ridiculous and disturbing, even more so when Grantaire considered that he was just dancing and getting cozy with Javert.

“It seems I can’t fool you,” Enjolras, or Javert, said, waving his hands in the air. He’d given up on acting like Enjolras and all his mannerisms seemed wrong. He addressed the group, and there appeared to be a power radiating from him, as though any minute he would snap and destroy them all. “I have no choice now but to take the throne by force.”

Javert snapped his fingers and all the doors in the main hall slammed shut, causing a few people to gasp and one couple, who were only just entering, to scream and throw themselves out of the way. The orchestra players, realizing that there was a disturbance in the drunken frivolity, stopped playing, and tried to figure out what going on.

“Now,” Javert said, in Enjolras’s voice, “where is the king?”

It didn’t take long for King Jean Valjean to find the source of the sudden disturbance, and he came barreling through the crowd, looking surprised to see Grantaire, and what appeared to be a bunch of harmless young men.

“Grantaire,” Valjean said, hesitantly, with a small cough. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“I believe I’m the one you should be asking,” Javert said, approaching the king. Grantaire could see the confusion written all over the king’s face at being approached by someone who looked about as threatening as a seventeen year old girl.

“You obviously don’t recognize me in this disguise,” Javert said, his dramatic entrance ruined, “but I am Javert, the most powerful wizard in all the land, and soon to be the king.”

“Javert!” Jean Valjean exclaimed, causing everyone within earshot to gasp dramatically, and a few people to bring their handkerchiefs up to their faces as though evil-wizard was catching.

“Silence!” Javert yelled, and his annoyed tone sounded so familiar in Enjolras’s voice that Grantaire’s stomach turned. “You can either relinquish the throne, or I will take it by force, and not before I kill every last person here.”

“You can’t kill every last person,” Feuilly said, trying to be reasonable. “Who will you lead?”

Javert turned around to glare at Feuilly, before waving his hand in a dismissive way. Before their eyes, Feuilly was transformed into a small tree frog.

“Oh my god!” Prouvaire shouted, gathering Feuilly into his hands before he could be trampled by the inevitable drunkard who wasn’t watching where they were going.

“Can I get a cranberry vodka?” a voice said, clearly not paying attention to the dramatics at hand. Of course, it was Montparnasse.

The bartender just stared at him like he was crazy for trying to order a drink when there was an evil wizard turning people into frogs.

Montparnasse followed the bartender’s eyes and saw Javert.

“Holy—” he began, “you’re the one who believes in the rights of the people and all that!”

Grantaire hoped his father now realized why inviting Montparnasse was a bad idea.

“I certainly do not,” Javert said, scoffing. “And you will be silent and cease to order another drink, or face the consequences.”

Montparnasse blanched, and attempted to disappear back into the crowd – an impossible task in his flamboyant suit.

“Where was I?” Javert said, incredibly frustrated by all the interruptions. “Valjean, what do you say? Are you ready to step aside and let me lead France?”

Because Javert had approached the king, the amis were now able to talk quietly without him hearing. Combeferre was already whispering frantically, and Grantaire turned to listen.

“This spell requires three ingredients – the blood of a goat, an eggplant, and the feather from a swan.” Combeferre paused and reached into his pocket, pulling out a long white feather. “This is from Enjolras,” he continued, and Grantaire resisted the urge to snatch it up and treasure it forever. Right now, Enjolras seemed impossibly far away. The idea of him alone out in the night, scared, and sick, made Grantaire feel incredibly helpless.

Combeferre turned to Grantaire, “do you know where we can find the other two ingredients?”

“Well, there’s some eggplant over there with the grilled vegetables,” Grantaire said, motioning to a plate near the bar where all the food was laid out. “I don’t know about the goat, though.”

Joly reached over and grabbed an eggplant from the plate, handing it to Combeferre.

“I have an idea,” Marius said, suddenly. Grantaire was immediately afraid. Marius was incredibly sweet, and a good friend, but his ideas rarely worked out.

“You know what!” Marius shouted, causing the amis to wince nervously. Marius’s shout had attracted the attention of both Javert and Valjean, who were busy arguing over bread.

“I seriously hate goats,” Marius continued, marching around. “For real, goats are the worst.”

Grantaire contemplated for a moment if Marius was somehow still drunk from the previous night.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Javert said, and he once again waved his hand. This time, Marius was transformed into a goat. Without another glance, Javert went back to his heated argument with Valjean, while the rest of the guests looked at the goat with horror, and attempted to act like they weren’t deathly afraid of the same thing happening to them.

“Perfect,” Combeferre said, acting as though that was a completely normal plan. Grantaire supposed that humans becoming animals and vice versa was actually part of his life. Combeferre reached over and drew a small amount of blood from the Marius-goat with a knife that he’d grabbed from the table, pouring it into a shot glass. This had to be the shoddiest spell-casting in the history of the universe.

“Okay,” Combeferre continued, “this spell will only bind Javert’s magic, but then we need to hurry back to Enjolras.” He was staring at Grantaire now. “Enjolras is at the lake, and he’s close to death. When I left, he was delirious, and he was asking for you.”

Grantaire’s stomach dropped. He’d never felt so useless, so helpless, in his entire life. Enjolras was counting on him and here he was trapped in a stupid ball that he shouldn’t have gone to in the first place. He’d been so concerned about Enjolras liking him and making a good impression that he’d left him totally vulnerable.

“Hey,” Combeferre said, sensing Grantaire’s distress, “focus. Enjolras needs you.”

“Right,” Grantaire said, taking a deep breath.

“Okay,” Combeferre began. He knelt onto the floor, and the other amis, including the Marius-goat and the Feuilly-frog, still in Prouvaire’s hands, gathered around. Combeferre smashed the eggplant with his fist and poured the blood on top of it. As he laid the swan feather on top he spoke what sounded like an ancient enchantment,

_“White, the color of this swan feather,  
Purple, the color of this eggplant…”_

As Combeferre spoke, the amis all glanced at each other with skeptical expressions. This sounded like no spell Grantaire had ever heard before. The Marius-goat began to bleat softly, before letting out a shrill scream that sounded almost human.

Combeferre gave him an impatient look before continuing,

_“Red, the color of this blood,  
Trap this wizard’s magic.”_

After Combeferre finished, the makeshift altar seemed to glow before bursting into blue flames. Just as quickly, the fire was out, leaving the amis in an expectant silence.

They turned to look at Javert, who was still animatedly arguing with the king and seemed oblivious to the spell that had just been cast against him.

“No, Javert,” Valjean was shouting, getting up in his face, “bread was only seventy-five cents at the time, which means a penalty longer than a week is entirely illegal—”

“You think you know the law better than me?” Javert shouted, trying to seem menacing in Enjolras’s body. “The bread was at least a franc!”

Grantaire, knowing his father as he did, realized that this conversation could legitimately go on forever, and hastened to speed it up so that he could get to Enjolras.

“Javert!” he shouted, causing Javert to turn around and glare at him with Enjolras’s blue eyes. Grantaire was sweating under the intensity of that gaze.

“I’m leaving now,” he said, “and you can’t stop me.”

“Sure, I can,” Javert said, amusement in his eyes. “What shall I make you? Maybe a swan like your pretty friend?”

Before Grantaire could respond, or tell Javert that if he ever mentioned Enjolras again he wouldn’t live to tell the tale, Javert whipped his hand into the air. Grantaire closed his eyes tightly, but nothing ever happened. He let out a breath of relief, opening his eyes to reveal an incredibly confused Javert.

“What the hell?” Javert said, looking down at his hands as though he’d been personally betrayed. “What did you do?” He went to make a move against Grantaire, but was immediately apprehended by the king and the remaining amis. It wasn’t long before Javert was handcuffed to a chair, surrounded on all sides.

“This is pointless,” Javert said, looking straight at Grantaire, hatred in his eyes. “Your friend is still going to die. It’s probably already happened.”

Grantaire paled, and Combeferre grabbed his arm to get his attention.

“Come on!” he said, pulling Grantaire away. Grantaire turned to look back at Javert, still wearing Enjolras’s face, through the crowd. He wondered if this would be the last time he saw that face alive.

As they rushed out of the room, followed by a swarm of guests who’d apparently had enough excitement for one night, Grantaire struggled to gather his thoughts. Sure, they had defeated Javert to some extent, but Enjolras was still cursed to die – if he hadn’t already – and he would still become a swan when the sun rose. Grantaire felt horribly outmatched, and wished he had some magical ability of his own. Combeferre had let go of his arm at this point, and was constantly glancing behind him to ensure that Grantaire was keeping up.

Grantaire remembered running through the woods with Enjolras. He prayed he’d get the chance to do that again, although preferably not from the law.

“We’re almost there,” Combeferre said, as Grantaire tripped over a root, practically falling on his face before catching himself, moving solely on pure adrenaline alone.

Finally, Combeferre slowed down, and Grantaire recognized where they were. He pushed a few low hanging branches aside to reveal the lake, surrounded by pastel flowers. The forest was lit brightly by the moon, reflecting like a beacon off the surface of the lake, where Grantaire had first met the love of his life.

This time, however, he saw Enjolras lying on the grass, Courfeyrac hovering over him, occasionally brushing his forehead with a wet rag.

“The amis stopped by the lake earlier, before they went to your ball,” Combeferre explained. “They brought by a few supplies. We thought it might be too dangerous to move him.”

As they neared closer, Grantaire could see that Enjolras was still breathing, though it seemed slight and ragged. His eyes were closed and sweat was beaded on his face. Somehow, he still managed to look beautiful. Grantaire knelt beside him, and took one of his hands.

Enjolras stirred slightly, and opened his eyes. He didn’t seem to recognize Grantaire.

“He’s been like this for a while,” Courfeyrac explained, and he seemed to be seconds away from bursting into tears. “He isn’t responding to me.”

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, squeezing his hand. Enjolras followed Grantaire’s voice but his eyes seemed far away. “Enjolras, it’s Grantaire.”

Enjolras blinked, but his expression didn’t change.

“It’s so good to see you,” Grantaire said, his fragile composure crumbling. Enjolras was staring at him, but there was nothing behind his eyes. “I was so worried about you.” He paused, choking back tears. “You wouldn’t have liked the ball very much. Lots of rich people who don’t donate their money to the poor.”

Grantaire continued talking just so Enjolras would be able to hear his voice, and stopped when Enjolras’s hand suddenly twitched in his own.

Enjolras blinked twice, and his eyes seemed to clear slightly.

“Javert…” he muttered, “is he…dead?”

“He’s defeated,” Combeferre said. He was standing behind Grantaire, and had silent tears running down his face.

Enjolras looked up at Combeferre and then back down to Grantaire. Their eyes met, and Grantaire could tell that Enjolras knew who he was.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras choked, coughing up blood. Grantaire reached over to wipe it from his lips, his hands shaking. “Please, will you promise me—” He was lost to more coughing, and his whole body seemed to convulse.

“Anything, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, holding onto his hand tightly and pulling it up to his chest, leaning in as closely as he could.

“Please, will you promise to take care of the people when you’re king?” Enjolras’s eyes were nearly shut again, and Grantaire could tell he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. “Paris has some of the highest taxes in the country…if you could just, use some of your own money…”

Enjolras’s voice trailed off and his hand fell limp in Grantaire’s.

“Of course, Enjolras,” Grantaire said; he was frantic, desperate to have Enjolras respond to him again. He touched his hand to Enjolras’s face and stroked it gently. “Please, wake up for me. We can lead the country together. Please, France needs their revolutionary.”

Enjolras mumbled incoherently before going still.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire said, his voice raised. “Enjolras, answer me.” He repeated Enjolras’s name over and over, each time becoming more and more forlorn. He looked up to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and pleaded,

“Please, what can we do?”

They both had expressions of utter dread on their faces, looking down at Enjolras’s unmoving form.

“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac whispered, barely managing to get out the words.

“There has to be something that can break the curse,” Combeferre said, and he sounded angry – angry at himself for failing Enjolras.

Suddenly, Grantaire remembered Marius’s story. He recalled how drunk Marius had been, slurring his words together, banging on the table. He remembered how he and Marius had both fallen in love after just a glance. He looked down at Enjolras and decided that it was their only shot.

Enjolras’s lips were a dark red, and they were parted slightly as he laid there, a look of serenity over his face. Grantaire would not let him die. Gathering his courage, he leaned over Enjolras and gently brought their lips together, brushing his own lightly against Enjolras’s.

He pulled back hesitantly, his heart beating loudly in his ears. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to peak over the horizon, shining golden light upon the lake.

“I love you, Enjolras,” he whispered, so quietly that he didn’t know if Combeferre and Courfeyrac even heard.

“We didn’t change,” he heard Courfeyrac’s amazed voice behind him. “The sun is up, and we didn’t change.”

“How is that possible?” Combeferre asked, awestruck.

Grantaire forced his eyes away from Enjolras and looked behind him, up at his friends.

“Do you think it was the spell you used against Javert?” he asked, and was surprised to hear the tears heavy in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre said, honestly. “I didn’t think so.”

Suddenly, Grantaire felt a tug on his hand and he whipped his head around to see Enjolras, eyes open, gazing at him with a completely baffled expression. He recognized Grantaire, yet could not understand what they were doing in the forest.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire sighed, never more relieved in his life, “thank god you’re alive.”

“What happened?” Enjolras asked. His voice was weak but he no longer sounded moments away from death.

“You were cursed by Javert,” Grantaire explained, “so that he could take your place at the ball. But, I don’t know, somehow the spell was broken.”

“Oh my god,” Courfeyrac exclaimed, “it really was true love’s kiss!”

“Pardon?” Enjolras said, trying to sit up. Grantaire hesitantly helped him up, feeling incredibly guilt-ridden that he’d just gone and kissed Enjolras while he was unconscious.

“True love’s kiss!” Courfeyrac repeated, and he sounded incredibly pleased. “I guessed it, remember? Apparently Grantaire is your true love. Look, Enjolras, the spell is broken! It’s day out and we’re not swans!”

Enjolras turned to look at Grantaire with wonder in his eyes. Grantaire dropped his gaze to the forest floor and couldn’t bring himself to look up. Surely, swan or not, Enjolras would be incredibly disappointed and freaked out about the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, in a low voice, still looking down. “You were dying, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras said, slowly. “Grantaire, it’s okay.”

Grantaire tentatively raised his eyes and saw that Enjolras was looking at him with such passion and love it was overwhelming.

“You saved my life,” Enjolras said, and he was blushing so deeply Grantaire considered for a moment that he might still be feverish.

“We should go check on the other amis,” Courfeyrac said, “see how they’re handling Javert.”

“You’re right,” Combeferre said, and the two of them left the lake. Grantaire recognized that for what it was – an excuse for Grantaire and Enjolras to have a moment alone. Grantaire was grateful, and also terrified.

“You’re upset?” Enjolras asked, somehow always able to read Grantaire.

“No,” Grantaire said, shaking his head. “Not anymore. Now that you’re okay.”

“So,” Enjolras said, “you broke the curse with true love’s kiss. Javert is unexpectedly cliché.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said. He needed to say this before he lost his nerve. “I know I broke your spell, but please don’t feel like you owe me anything. Please don’t feel,” he paused, taking a breath to calm himself, “obligated to be with me now.”

“I don’t feel obligated, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, and he shifted closer so that they were sitting together, facing the lake where they’d first met, watching as it glittered in the morning sun.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, feeling their bodies practically pressed together. “That’s good.”

“You know I will not give up my mission to free the people of France,” Enjolras said, “but perhaps we could do it together.”

“Of course,” Grantaire agreed, happy that Enjolras still wanted to be around him. “I’ve told you before that I want to help, and I promised you that I would be a better king.”

“It is difficult for me to admit this, to you and to myself but,” Enjolras paused, turning to look Grantaire in the eye before whispering cautiously, “I love you too.”

Grantaire froze at this confession. Never in a million years did he believe that Enjolras would reciprocate his feelings. He was waiting for Enjolras to laugh and say he was just kidding, ask how Grantaire could ever think that was even possible and yet, Grantaire could not imagine Enjolras ever being so deliberately cruel. Enjolras had the biggest heart of anyone he’d ever known.

“Really?” Grantaire finally managed, unable to keep the pure exaltation from his voice. “But I’m…the prince you’re trying to overthrow. I come from a family you hate—”

Grantaire was interrupted as Enjolras brought their lips together in a kiss. It was desperate and clumsy and Grantaire loved every second of it.

When Enjolras pulled away, his lips were a bright red and he had a faint blush on his cheeks. He was struggling to look Grantaire in the eyes, while Grantaire was unable to look away. Enjolras was absolutely stunning. He was everything that Grantaire wasn’t – beautiful, smart, passionate, exciting. Surely, Enjolras must have realized this. It couldn’t have escaped his notice that Grantaire was practically infamous for his ugliness, and that the only thing he had going for him was his title, which Enjolras clearly wasn’t impressed by. His insecurities must have shown on his face because Enjolras lifted a hand to gently brush his cheek and asked,

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire murmured, leaning into Enjolras’s touch. “I’m not good enough for you.”

“Yes, you are,” Enjolras said, with conviction. He grabbed Grantaire’s hand in his own and said, in a quieter but no less confident version of his speech-making voice, “You are perfect for me. You understand me, and you love me, and that’s enough.”

“What if I didn’t believe in your cause?” Grantaire asked. “What then?”

“I would still love you,” Enjolras said, smiling, “and I would eventually convince you, through hard work and lingerie pamphlets.”

Grantaire laughed softly, and brought their foreheads together. He’d never felt so lucky.

As the sun crept higher into the sky, the two of them kissed passionately, relishing in the feelings of happiness and security.

When they returned to the castle, they found the place in utter disaster, as though the king had hosted a rave rather than a respectable royal ball. The king practically lost his shit when he saw Grantaire walking hand-in-hand with Enjolras.

“Javert!” Valjean shouted, “unhand my son!”

Enjolras looked incredibly surprised by Valjean’s outburst, especially since he’d been sending the king a death glare on behalf of the impoverished citizens of France.

“Wait, father,” Grantaire said, stepping in front of Enjolras before Valjean could either handcuff him to a chair or berate him on the price of bread, “this isn’t Javert. This is the real Enjolras. The person I’d originally invited to the ball.”

“Oh,” Valjean said, coughing slightly into a handkerchief. “Well, I should have known. After all, Javert is safely behind bars. There’s no way he could escape.”

The king did not sound altogether confident of the quality of Paris’s jails.

The rest of the amis, including Joly and Bossuet, ran over to greet Grantaire and Enjolras. Grantaire noticed with relief that both Marius and Feuilly had been returned to their human forms.

“Enjolras,” Prouvaire said, “we’re so relieved to hear everything worked out.”

“Friends,” Enjolras greeted. “Thank you for worrying. But everything is fine now.” He looked over at Grantaire. “You can thank Grantaire. He saved my life.”

Grantaire blushed uncontrollably.

“And, because of him,” Courfeyrac joined in, “our swan curse is broken!”

There was a bit of cheering amongst the amis, causing Valjean to look incredibly confused.

“Look,” he coughed into his handkerchief, “enjoy the kingdom, Grantaire.”

“Sorry?” Grantaire asked, confused. He only then noticed that his father had a small suitcase in hand.

“I’ve had enough of wizards and magic and royal balls,” Valjean muttered, “I’ve had enough of bread thieves and false arrests and open bars…”

“You’ve had enough of taxing the people of France in order to fund extravagant but altogether pointless and dangerous dances?” Enjolras suggested.

Valjean blinked at him and said, “I guess. Anyway, I’m taking a short vacation. Don’t try to find me. I’ll be back for your wedding. Probably.”

With that, Valjean stomped out the door, looking thoroughly finished with the royal lifestyle.

Grantaire, Enjolras, Joly, Bossuet, Marius, and the rest of the amis stared at each other in stunned silence.

“Well, Grantaire,” Marius said, breaking the silence, “I guess we should start planning for your wedding.”

Joly and Bossuet looked incredibly pleased with the idea of planning a celebration.

“First,” Grantaire said, pulling Enjolras close, “we work on fixing France.”

Enjolras smiled at him and said, “I have a few ideas. Feuilly, did you bring the pamphlets?”

“I can go to the café and get them,” Feuilly said.

“From now on,” Enjolras said, “we use the food in this castle to feed the starving people.”

“And Marius,” Grantaire said, “you can bring Cosette to France whenever you want. I’m going to talk with the King of England, and try to reach some kind of understanding.”

“Thank you,” Marius said, looking incredibly grateful. Grantaire supposed it was the least he could do after Marius had basically volunteered himself to become a goat in order to donate blood.

“And you’re all welcome to use the castle for meetings,” Grantaire said, looking around at the immense home that he’d grown up in, and would now share with Enjolras.

“I’ll go and gather our things,” Combeferre said, leading the rest of the amis out the door.

“I guess we have no choice but to join your group as well,” Joly remarked, “what’re you called again?”

“The Friends of the ABC,” Enjolras explained, “it’s a pun.”

“Clever,” Joly said, still slightly tipsy.

“Well,” Bossuet said, “I’m going home and taking a week long nap.”

“Same,” Marius agreed, already halfway up the stairs to his room in the guest suite.

“Bye, Grantaire. Bye, Enjolras,” Joly said, grabbing Bossuet’s hand and exiting the palace.

Grantaire and Enjolras were alone now amongst the wreckage of a seemingly wild party.

“I know everyone sort of rushed us into this,” Grantaire said, shyly. “The wedding and all that.”

“I understand it’s important for you to be married as soon as possible,” Enjolras said, walking over to an overturned chair and setting it right, before sitting down. He grabbed Grantaire’s hand and led him over, ushering him into his lap.

“I’ll hurt you,” Grantaire said, shaking his head. Enjolras just scoffed and rolled his eyes, pulling Grantaire down on top of him, and wrapping him up in his arms. Grantaire had never felt so content, so wanted, sitting there with Enjolras’s fingers playing gently in his hair.

“I would be honored to be yours,” Enjolras said, smiling into Grantaire’s chest.

Grantaire leaned down to give Enjolras another kiss, intertwining their fingers.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, gazing around at the ruined hall, the floor littered with broken glass swans. He turned back and brought their foreheads together.

“Enjolras,” he repeated. It sounded like a prayer.


End file.
